


The Call Within

by PersephoneSiren



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Extended Universe - Fandom, Jane Eyre (2011), Jane Eyre - All Media Types
Genre: Hannibal Lecter is Not a Cannibal, Hannigram - Freeform, Inspired by Jane Eyre's novel / movies, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Romance, Slow Burn, hannigram AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2019-07-12 04:58:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 29,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15988106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PersephoneSiren/pseuds/PersephoneSiren
Summary: This is the story of a man whose life will be filled with suffering, fear and mystery, as well as passions.But does this lonely being was prepared to face life at Thornfield Hall? Or its master?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [The Call Within](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15987929) by [PersephoneSiren](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PersephoneSiren/pseuds/PersephoneSiren). 



> A big thanks to all the people who helped me and read this fic, before it was published here. And one more big thank to the people who pushed me to try again to publish on AO3. Thank you <33  
> *******  
> This fic is very largely inspired by the movie "Jane Eyre" of 2011.  
> *******  
> Thank you very much to everyone who will give this fic a chance.

* * *

 The day was rising, the English countryside was silent, bathed in thick fog. But soon, it was disturbed by a silhouette that weaved through the fields and forests, trying to put as much distance as possible between itself and its starting point. Covered with a long green coat, tightly clutching his only luggage, an old suitcase that contained the few things he owned, the man went on his way. He alternated between a slow and faster walk, running sometimes even a few meters, after turning around, as if the man had heard or seen a ghost.

More than once, the green silhouette stopped to reflect, to catch his breath, where the road separated in several directions. At one more intersection in the countryside, the man took no visible roads, deciding to go to the desert heaths, covered with moss, thorn bushes and rocks. The hours crept on, the day passed slowly, leaving the place to the night, but the man continued to walk.

At the top of a small hill covered with large grey rocks, the man stopped, looking at the landscape that lay before him. There was nothing on the horizon. Not a sign of life. Letting out a long sigh, before inhaling a big gulp of fresh air, as if to give himself courage, the man tried to resume his march. But tears began to flow down his cheeks. He was finally overwhelmed by his emotions, letting out his sadness, no longer controlling his sobs and groans of pain. The man dropped to the ground, curling in on himself, no longer trying to regain control. He was tired. The cold wind was vigorously biting his body, whipping his face wet with tears, while the rest crashed on the rock below. In the distance, lightning illuminated the English countryside, while thunder rumbled.

*******

Night had fallen and it was raining hard. Soaked to the bones, the man continued his walking. He didn't know if he was crying again or if it was only the rain that continued to wet his face. All he knew was that he was cold, he was hungry, but most of all, he was in pain.

*******

A little later, the drenched green silhouette saw lights. Houses. The man went to them, using his last remaining strength to reach these luminous points. The rain had been falling for several hours, making the ground muddy and slippery. It was dark, the moon sometimes illuminated the landscape, but it was not enough to prevent the man from stumbling. Standing up again, letting out a few more sobs, he started walking towards the houses, clutching his suitcase against him, as if it were a lifeline. Finally, he reached one of the houses. He knocked at the door to signal his presence, hoping that it would be opened despite the late hour. Nothing. Nobody opened.

The drenched figure dropped at the door, his trembling legs no longer supporting his weight. Shivering with cold, continuing to receive the rain that fell on his body, although his clothes were already full of water and could not absorb anything, the man decided to let fate decide his destiny. Why continue to live? Why continue to fight? He did not want a life that had hurt him so much and continued to make him suffer. The man swore to himself that if no one decided to open it to him, then he would die of cold and sadness here on the step of that unknown door.

“I will die.” The man managed to whisper, despite his shivering. He still hoped someone would come to help him. In vain, the door remained closed.

The rain was falling so hard and the man was so exhausted that he didn't hear the footsteps approaching him. He did not see the figure either, covered with a long black coat and a large hat, which came up behind him. The figure approached the man, found that the wet form was alive, shivering with cold and wracked with sobs. Then, the silhouette opened the door, somehow gathered up the man who had decided to let himself die and took him inside the house. A chimney fire illuminated the room, bringing warmth to its inhabitants, but the soaked man saw nothing, felt nothing. He heard voices, but he couldn't understand what they were saying. He was seated on a chair, from falling to the ground. Water dripped from his clothes, falling on the old floor tiles, leaving a damp trail behind him.

*******

“St. Mason?”

A young woman had just come down from the first floor, alerted by the noises coming from the ground floor.

“I found him at the door.” The man with the hat said.  
“He is white as death.” The woman murmured.  
“Margot, some of that hot milk.” The man ordered to his interlocutor.

She went to the table, which was covered with food, to take the pitcher of milk and fill a cup of the hot liquid. She returned to the two men, curiously observing the stranger.

“St. Mason, we would have stumbled upon his corpse in the morning. And he would have haunted us for turning him away.” The woman named Margot murmured again to the one who seemed to be called St. Mason.

The last inhabitant of the house, a man named Cordell, handed Margot a cloth, so that she could wipe the soaked face of the stranger, once she had managed to make him drink the cup of hot milk.

“He's no vagrant. I'm sure of it.” St. Mason explained to the woman, trying to reassure her.

Margot was walking towards the stranger who shivered and gently approached the steaming cup to the lips of the man.

“There's milk for you.” She warned him, trying to give the man a few sips.

The man obeyed, or rather, moved mechanically, leaving his body to act and respond, while his mind was plunged into darkness.

“Ask him, his name.” St. Mason muttered.  
“What's your name?” Margot asked.

A voice seemed to rise from the darkest corners of the room. It pronounced the name of the stranger and only he seemed to hear it. The man was moving his head, keeping his eyes closed.

“Tell us how we may help you.” St. Mason asked the stranger.  
“Your name?” Margot dared to ask again, seeing that the man was moving a little.

The voice rose again, still only audible to the unknown. This voice, the man knew it well. It belonged to a young girl he had known many years ago.

_Where are you?_

The man finally opened his eyes, staring at his saviours without necessarily seeing them. His face reflected fear.

“Must hide…” He murmured.

Margot, St. Mason, and Cordell looked at him, not knowing what to say in the face of this strange answer.

“St. Mason, we must get him warm. Let us take him upstairs.” Cordell suggested.  
“Will he die?” Margot asked, worried about the strange state of the man.  
“Must hide…” The man murmured again, before falling back into the darkness that clouded his feverish spirit.

_Hannibal... Mischa... Where are you, rats?_


	2. Chapter 2

Hannibal and Mischa ran. They were trying to escape that voice that was chasing them, trying to catch them to hurt them. The young Hannibal was 11 years old, while his little sister, Mischa, had just turned 5 years old. From the top of her little legs, the child with blond hair, tried to follow her eldest, who firmly clasped her hand. They had to run in silence, escaping from their aggressor who had started to martyrize them, one more time.

Stopping for a moment in the room they had managed to reach after a long corridor, they waited in silence for something: a noise. A noise, any one, that would allow them to know where their attacker was. Hannibal was looking at Mischa, checking that his younger sister was catching her breath, while listening attentively to his surroundings. In his other hand, he was holding an old book, whose cover was worn by the many readings it had suffered. Finally, a sound of footsteps was heard. The floor had creaked from the next room.

“Hannibal... Mischa... Where are you, rats?”

The boy walked quickly with his little sister to the curtains of the room where they were. The fabric on the large windows was thick, making it easy to block the sunlight, but also the presence of two children. Hannibal passed Mischa first behind the heavy curtains, then slipped into the small space. He looked at his little sister to tell her they had to remain silent, while trying to reassure her as best he could. She was also watching her elder, the fear paralyzing her face, leaving her big marron eyes filling with tears.

Mischa was, in normal times, what could be called a beautiful little girl. Her long blond hair was the same color as the fresh butter (color she had from her late mother), which gave her an angelic look. Her white skin was as soft as a baby's and blushed at the slightest effort. Her parents had often compared her red cheeks to two rose petals on a cloud of milk. And Hannibal liked to think the same way. This little sister who looked like a porcelain doll, he alone now could... No, had to protect her. He had sworn he would look after her after the tragic death of their parents in a carriage accident. And that's what he tried to do every day, trying to protect Mischa from their awful cousin Chiyoh and her mother, their aunt, Shikibu.

This person, of Japanese origin and nicknamed Lady Murasaki (this one being her maiden name), was a beautiful brunette woman with fine and delicate features. She was around 30, and had married Robert Lecter, the brother of the father of the two orphans. The man had collected the children of his late brother, becoming their guardian and caretaker after bringing them from Lithuania. But after a few months, due to problems related to his economic affairs that were based in Madeira, the new Count Lecter had to go to this distant land, leaving his wife to take care of the children. However, this woman, whose beauty was vaunted, possessed a cold, selfish heart, and despised, hated Hannibal and Mischa. She did not lavish any love on the two orphans and in no way reprimanded her daughter Chiyoh, who often tortured the two children. Lady Murasaki cherished and adored above her unique girl, whom she had had with the Count fourteen years before, but who would not inherit the fortune and titles of her husband. When he died, it would be Hannibal who would inherit everything and Shikibu could not stand this situation. Thus, to relieve her pain and feed her rancor, she let her daughter Chiyoh torment and beat the orphans who lived in her house. And as often, the teenager did not deprive herself the pleasure that had been granted to her by her mother.

Hannibal squeezed Mischa's little hand, when he felt that she was gripping a little more of his. He would have liked to take his little sister in his arms, to console her, calm her, sing to her some lullabies or nursery rhymes that their mother used to sing to them during bad sorrows or nights of storms. But for the moment, he could only hold his breath, squeezed Mischa's hand, as well as his book, and hope that Chiyoh did not spot them behind the curtains. The teenager had arrived to the room where they were.

“Where are you, rat?” Chiyoh whispered again, holding in one of her hands one of his father's collection swords.

The girl was turning her head in all directions, sometimes whipping the air furiously with her sword, trying to see where her cousins could be. Hannibal, who could see her from his hiding place, hoped not to be found.

“I know you're here. If you crawl out and say, "Forgive me, Mistress Chiyoh," I might consider it.”

The teenager passed near the window, still looking for Hannibal and Mischa, without noticing their presence. She walked to the next room, still saber in hand, ready to hit or staple one of the children. Then, realizing that her mother was coming, Chiyoh quickly hid the weapon behind her back.

“Mama.” Chiyoh said to Lady Murasaki, to greet her.

The beautiful Japanese woman looked at her daughter, smiled at her and made no comment about the strange posture her child had adopted.

“Chiyoh.” Shikibu replied, before leaving the room, leaving the teenager to resume her quest.

The danger was out of the way, Hannibal helped Mischa climb onto the couch behind them, which was stuck to the window. The furniture was also hidden by the curtains, which always put them safe from their tormentors. Climbing too to sit beside his sister, Hannibal tenderly kissed the mass of blond hair tied in a bun of the little girl, to finally comfort her. Then he opened the book he had taken with him, letting his little fingers go through the pages, to finally find the chapter he was looking for. He showed Mischa the engraving of a kingfisher illustrating the page, leaving the little girl to caress the paper. A smile appeared on the child's lips, to the great pleasure of Hannibal.

“There you are!” Chiyoh shouted, who had just appeared in front of them, after lifting up the curtains that had hidden them for a few minutes.

Hannibal looked at his cousin, surprised by this sudden apparition, fearing the worst. Mischa let a yelp escape from her lips, before trying to hide behind the back of her big brother. Chiyoh looked at the two orphans badly, leaving a bad smile on her face. She pointed her sword at the boy to threaten him.

“That book belongs to me, rat.” Chiyoh hissed.  
“It belongs to my Uncle Robert.” Hannibal retorted, before having the book pulled off by his cousin. Behind him, Mischa continued to hide and trembled with all her little limbs.

The teenager quickly waved the book, doing a movement as if she was going to hit Hannibal. The child put his arms in front of him, ready to accuse the blow, but also, to protect his younger sister by making a rampart with his body. But after this gesture, Chiyoh smiled again, chuckled for a moment, then finally hit. The strike was violent. The girl had managed to reach the heads of the two orphans by the amplitude of her hit. The two faces, one behind the other, had hit the nearby wall, hitting with a dry sound at the impact. Hannibal, despite the shock he had just received, quickly turned to see his sister. Mischa, also shocked by the impact, was staring into space, trying to figure out what had happened. A thin stream of blood began to flow from her right temple, where her little head had hit the wall. Hannibal, at the sight of the blood, felt his own boiling in his veins and his ears hissing. With a quick movement, he jumped on his cousin, who fell to the ground.

“Spoilt, miserable brat!” Hannibal shouted at Chiyoh, striking the teenager vigorously with his little fists.

Mischa cried. Her head hurted, but most of all, she was scared. She had never seen her big brother that way. He who always managed to keep calm, despite all the mockery and torture they had suffered since the departure of their uncle for Madeira, it was the first time she saw him like that. He was raging against their cousin, letting out all the anger he had buried deep inside him. Mischa was afraid, not of Hannibal, but of the fact that this struggle would have consequences for them. Despite her young age, the blond girl was quick-witted and intelligent as her eldest. She knew that Lady Murasaki would take revenge on them for the beatings against Chiyoh.

“Mama!” The girl shouted, trying to attract some help.

Although she had managed to put her arms in front of her, to protect herself to the maximum, the girl was struggling to withstand Hannibal's blows. The boy was raging against her and although he was young, small and thin, he managed to hit hard. The screams rang out in the house, finally attracting two maids who ran into the room where the fight was going on.

“For shame!” One of them said, noting the situation.

The two women were frightened by what they saw, not daring to move or intervene. Lady Murasaki, who had just arrived, rushed to Hannibal to stop the assault, while her daughter continued to call her.

“You wretched imp!” The Japanese yelled, gripping her nephew firmly, separating the two adversaries.  
“They attacked me!” Chiyoh shouted, pointing to the two children.  
“I hate you, Chiyoh Lecter! I hate you!” Hannibal replied to his cousin, trying to escape his aunt to attack again.

Lady Murasaki still clutched the boy tightly and glared at the two maids who had been motionless since they entered the room.

“Take them!” She yelled at them.

The maid, with the strongest physique, took Hannibal's arm and pulled him to another room. Mischa, still sobbing on the couch, had let the blood run down her face and stain her dress. She let herself go when the other servant took her arm, taking the same path that the one her brother had took a few seconds before.

“Lock her up in the red room! And him, in the closet!” Lady Murasaki yelled again, once the two children had left the room.

At these words, the little girl took fear and also began to struggle, begging the woman who was holding her to not take her to this red room. Hannibal continued to squirm to free himself from the maid's grip, no longer to attack his cousin, but to save his sister. But the servant kept her iron grip and gave the boy no chance to escape.

“No! Please, please! No, it's haunted! Please! It's haunted! No!” Mischa whimpered, letting panic take over.

The red room was the room in the house where the former owner, it was said, had put an end to his life. It was reputed haunted, rumored that Chiyoh had enjoyed spreading. Strange sounds and other crackles could be heard regularly when someone passed near the room. For Hannibal, it was a stupid invention created by his cousin. He already had trouble believing in the existence of god, so the one of ghosts, nonsense! The gloomy sounds that escaped from the room were due to the oldery of the house, the crackling wood, and the wind that penetrated the old chimney. Many things had a scientific explanation for the boy. But for Mischa, who was younger and naive, but also more believing, the red room was haunted by the spirit of the former owner and she was terribly afraid of this room.

Hannibal was quickly shut up in the little closet adjoining the red room. He knocked against the door, trying to escape to meet his sister, whom he heard screaming of fear. From the closet, he could easily imagine that the two maids were trying to lock the girl into the room, despite her entreaties.

“If you don't sit still, you will be tied down! What we do is for your own good. Pray for forgiveness, Miss Lecter, or something bad will come down that chimney and fetch you away.” One of the women answered to Mischa.

The voices were muffled and barely audible from where Hannibal was, but he could easily hear what was happening in the next room. In the same way, he could hear the footsteps of the two women who had to get away from the little girl, to head for the exit. The door of the red room slammed, before being locked. Then, Hannibal heard again footsteps. Mischa had had to walk to the door, because he could hear her little voice through the fists she was throwing again the divider.

“Let me out, please! Have mercy, Aunt Murasaki! Please!” She cried.  
“Mischa, please listen to me. Concentrate on my voice. You must not be afraid. The room is not haunted.” Hannibal tried to reassure and calm her sister, despite their separation.

But fear had overwhelmed the little girl and she could not hear what her older brother was saying. She continued to knock on the door, but soon her strength left her and the blows were more and more distant, until she stopped completely. Hannibal wondered why his sister had stopped fighting when he heard strange noises coming from the red room. The sounds lasted a few seconds before ceasing as well. Then a loud din was heard, followed by the hysterical cries of Mischa and further blows against the door. Something must have scared the child and Hannibal tried again to calm her younger sister from his closet.

“Mischa, please, listen to me. It's nothing. There is no ghost. The room is not haunted.”

The boy then heard a huge boom against the door of the next room, then the silence.

“Mischa? Mischa?! Mischa!!!” Hannibal shouted, terrified that his little sister had been hurt and was in danger.

In the red room, calm had returned. The cloud of dust and soot that had fallen from the chimney duct, and which had frightened the blonde girl, was falling gently to the floor and the furniture in the room. Gradually, a thin layer covered everything, including the unconscious body of the child, who lay in front of the door.

*******

“Do you know, Hannibal and Mischa Lecter, where the wicked go after death?” The churchman asked the two children, between two sips of tea.

Lady Murasaki, after the incident a few days earlier, had decided to bring Mr. Crawford, a clergyman who was also the director and treasurer of the Lowood School. Hannibal's violence against his cousin Chiyoh served as an ideal pretext for his aunt to finally get rid of her two horrible orphans.

Lowood's boarding school was reputed to be a very hard, strict institution created to educate poor and orphaned children. It was said that the boarders slept in cold rooms, ate very poor meals and were dressed in thin clothing, summer and winter. And it was in this place that Hannibal and Mischa would go live very soon.

When they would be finally away from home, Lady Murasaki would send a letter to her husband to warn him of this change of situation. She would not hesitate to tell the horrible behavior of the boy against their daughter, as well as the many other altercations that had occurred since the departure of the Count. Her nephew and niece were filthy creatures from hell to torment her, and they deserved to be sent to Lowood.

“They go to hell.” Mischa said timidly.  
“And what is hell?” Mr. Crawford asked.  
“A pit full of fire.”  
“Should you like to fall into this pit and be burned there forever?”  
“No, sir.”

Hannibal was looking at the clergyman, then at his aunt, while keeping an expressionless face. He was holding his little sister's hand, who was standing at his side, while letting her answer Mr. Crawford's questions. The boy had never really believed in the existence of god. For him, many things could be explained by scientific reasoning. From a very young age, he had read and learned a lot, thanks to his father, who was a very cultured and wise man. Count Lecter had transmitted his passion, his taste for studies and arts to his son. And during the few months he had lived with his uncle Robert, this one had continued this teaching, admiring the intelligence of the child. Certainly, his young age did not allow him to have an answer to everything, and many things still remained mysterious, without answers. But he had trouble thinking that above him, an entity was responsible for the fate of this world or the reminder of his parents at its side. No, for Hannibal, if god existed, then he was as bad as men, who were created at its image. And for now, the child saw this entity as evil, considering all the tragedies that he and his sister had experienced.

But Mischa, who was much younger than her brother, and more naive, was also more religious. Their mother, who had been a very pious woman, had taught them very early to be good believers, not to tempt the devil and thus avoid a life full of sins. The death of their parents and all the torments inflicted on them by Chiyoh and Lady Murasaki were for Mischa, trials sent by God, to try to corrupt her and her brother. And every night the little girl prayed with her child's words for the salvation of their souls, hoping that their dead parents would watch over them from heaven.

“How might you avoid it?” Mr. Crawford continued to ask the two children.  
“By pr…”  
“We must keep in good health and not die.” Hannibal replied firmly, having cut off the word of his younger sister.

Hell, the young boy sometimes had more difficulty with this notion, like paradise. When he looked at his aunt and cousin, he found himself doubting his beliefs and knowledge. How two people, as bad and deceitful, could exist? The devil or demonic entity had to be behind all this because he found no plausible reasoning that could explain such behavior. And imagine that his dead parents were watching over him and Mischa, from heaven, was a comforting thing for the child.

At this answer, Mr. Crawford sighed and looked at Lady Murasaki. This simple sentence pronounced by the young boy, seemed to prove the words of the beautiful Japanese: the two children, and especially the boy, were sinners who should be corrected and set on the right path.

“What is their parentage?” He asked to Hannibal and Mischa's aunt.  
“They're orphans. Their father was my husband's brother. On his departure he exhorted me to care for them. I have always treated them as one of my own.” She answered, before stopping and sighing.

She stared for a few seconds the cup of tea she held in her hands before she spoke again.

“If you accept them at Lowood School, Mr. Crawford, keep a strict eye on them.”

Lady Murasaki stopped speaking one more time, raised her head and looked coldly at the children facing her. She focused particularly on Hannibal, who stared at her.

“They have a heart of spite, and I'm sorry to say that their worst fault is that of deceit.”  
“You can rest assured that we shall root out the wickedness in those small, ungrateful plants.” The clergyman said.  
“And as for their vacations, it must spend them all at Lowood.” Lady Murasaki finished, before ending the conversation by taking the little bell that was next to her on the table next to the sofa.

She tinkled the instrument, alerting the servants that the interview with Mr. Crawford was over. They entered the room, to bring the man to the exit, as well as the two children in their room.

“You may leave.” The woman whispered, not giving a glance to Hannibal and Mischa.

The little girl was carried away by the maid, but it was not the case of her brother. The boy stepped toward his aunt before speaking.

“You said we were a liar. We’re not. If we were, we should say we loved you, and we don't. We dislike you worse than anybody in the world. People think you are good, but you're bad and hard-hearted. We'll let everyone know what you have done.” He said harshly.  
“Children must be corrected for their faults.” Lady Murasaki said.  
“Deceit is not our fault.”  
“But you are passionate, especially you.”  
“My uncle Robert is far away, and my father and mother are in heaven. They will know how you hate us and wish us dead. They will see everything you do and they will judge you, Mrs. Murasaki.  
“Get out.” She whispered, her eyes troubled at the accusations Hannibal had just made against her.


	3. Chapter 3

The carriage ride for Lowood lasted a whole day. Hannibal and Mischa were put in the car during one early morning and arrived at school at nightfall. It was cold, the weather was wet and a thick fog had settled. In addition, the establishment, seen from the outside, looked more like a church than a school.

It was Mrs. Crawford who welcomed them and like her husband, she seemed cold, severe and strict. Her long black curly hair was pulled in a bun, and the whole thing was covered with a white cap. She wore small silver glasses, which accentuated her pinched, shrewd look, as well as a long black dress. A gray apron around her waist and a thick dark gray coat completed her outfit. As soon as the children were out of the carriage, they were taken by her to the entrance of the boarding school.

Arrived at the destination, Mr. Crawford was waiting for them. In a glance, he pointed to his wife the little Mischa, as he approached Hannibal.

“Lowood is not a mixed school. You will live separately. You are forbidden to see or talk to each other outside the authorized hours. Mr. Lecter, follow me now. Phyllis, I'll let you take care of Miss Lecter.”

The two orphans looked at each other, panicked by this news to which they were not prepared. How could Hannibal protect Mischa if she was not at his side? It was not possible. They had always lived together, they could not be separated. Not like this, not so roughly. But without having the time to hug one last time or to say anything, the two children were taken away on their own.

Hannibal followed Mr. Crawford, who took him through several dark corridors. A few candles illuminated the path feebly, while the lantern which the director of the boarding school had in his hand was lugubriously lighting up the rest. The shadows that the man and the boy projected on the stone walls took strange forms, even grotesque ones. After a few minutes of walking, they arrived in a new room, which was like the rest, cold and dimly lit. Several boys of various ages were already present and some were coughing. A group was waiting to pass in front of a woman, probably a teacher, to show their hands and indicate that they were clean.

“Next. Show me your hands.” The woman repeated to each child who appeared in front of her.

The boy followed Mr. Crawford, until a man, hidden in the shadows, asked him to stop. The director went on to the teacher to talk to her, nodding at Hannibal. The person who had stopped the orphan, was also a teacher at the school. He started to take off Hannibal's clothes until he was in his underwear. A stream of cold air passed through the room and the child began to shiver.

“Stay there.” The professor said, before leaving with Hannibal's clothes.

The young boy tried to stand still, despite the shivers that ran through his puny body. He was watching the room, the other children, and the teacher who had returned to work after Mr. Crawford left. Then, quickly, he wondered where his little sister was, if she was well, if she was not too scared and if she also suffered this undressing. He did not care if he was being mistreated, put on a life of calamity again in this new environment, but he refused that Mischa had the same fate. She had done nothing to deserve all of this and not be able to protect her from possible bullying and other unjust punishments, Hannibal angered to the point of making him be sick.

_My name is Hannibal Fell._

_Who can we send for to help you?_

_No one. I mustn't ever be found._

*******

The sun had just rise, the weather was nice and the birds chirped happily. The day was bright, and yet Hannibal was heavy-hearted. Sitting on the bed in which he had slept and rested for several days, the man was contemplating the landscape through the window, his eyes lost in the void and his thoughts turned towards to... No, he shouldn't think to him anymore.

He finally stood up, pulling off his nightgown for wear the clean, dry clothes that lay on the dresser. Naked, feeling the rays of the sun caress and warm his skin, Hannibal looked at the landscape again through the window, before getting lost in his thoughts again.

*******

“Join me to Thyself with an inseparable band of love. For Thou, even Thou alone, dost satisfy him that loveth Thee. And without Thee, all things are vain and empty. Amen.”

St. Mason finished his prayer before beginning breakfast. Sitting at the same table, Margot and Cordell had their heads bent forward, their hands clasped, to pray and listen to the clergyman's sacred words. They also muttered an "Amen" to bless their meal, a few seconds after St. Mason. Hannibal, also present at the table, also murmured an "Amen".

The meal began, everyone was enjoying breakfast, letting the shocks of the spoons against the soup plates break the silence that had settled. After a few seconds, Margot began to speak.

“It's wonderful to see you up, Sir Fell. Last week we thought we'd be escorting your remains to an unmarked grave.” She said with a shy smile.  
“She read _The Bride of Lindorf_ and suddenly it's all woebegone maidens and dramatic deaths.” Cordell retorted mockingly.

Margot glared at her brother's assistant, while Hannibal stopped eating, to answer calmly.

“I'm sorry to have caused so much trouble.”  
“Nonsense. You're the most exciting thing that's happened here since St. Mason's sermon on the fall of Babylon.” The young woman said quickly.

His brother stopped eating, then gave her a look full of severity. Margot, ashamed to have spoken so quickly, was silent and let her cheeks flush. She was afraid of making a bad impression on the mysterious guest they were hosting since a few days earlier.

“I hope I'll not be eating long at your expense, Mr. Mason.” Hannibal added to his host.  
“Then tell me where to place you.” The clergyman asked.  
“Show me where to seek work, that is all I ask.”  
“You're not fit enough to work. Is he, Cordell?” Margot could not help to tell.  
“No. Stay with us.” The third man replied on the table.

Margot smiled at the answer, while her older brother, annoyed by the situation, told something to the young woman.

“You return to your posts at the end of the month. What must Sir Fell do then?”

At this question, his sister did not know what to say and took a few sips of water to avoid saying more nonsense. St. Mason looked at Hannibal, who silently eaten his meal, before quickly thinking about how to find or occupy this new inhabitant.

“I'll endeavor to help you, if that's what you wish.”  
“With all my heart, sir.” Hannibal answered again, still calm.

St. Mason took a few bites from his meal, before launching again the conversation with the man who was facing him.

“This school you were at, Sir Fell, this charitable institution, what did it prepare you for?”

_A wooden wand slapping a back..._   
_Then a whimper of pain..._

“Was it a thorough education?”

Hannibal then rested his spoon, wiped his lips with his napkin, before raising his head and looking at St. Mason to answer him.

“Most thorough.”

*******

“A little wit...” The teacher began.  
“A little wit...” Took back the students in chorus.  
“...will serve...”  
“...will serve...”  
“...a fortunate man.”  
“...a fortunate man.”  
“Again. A little wit...”  
“A little wit...”  
“...will serve...”  
“...will serve...”

The young Hannibal Lecter stopped repeating the lesson, taking advantage of the moment when the teacher did not look at them, to turn around. Behind him, towards the back of the great hall where most of the courtyards were being held, he could observe a little girl whose butter-colored curls were hanging out of her gray cap. Mischa. She and other girls were also studying, noting various things on their slates. The child, who raised her head to think better, saw her big brother and smiled at him, as if to show him that she was well, that he should not worry. But, despite everything, Hannibal was afraid for his younger sister.

It had been several months since the two orphans had arrived in Lowood. The days were harsh and exhausting because life was trying. The establishment was old, letting the drafts enter easily. The meals were bad and poor. While the uniforms they all wore were thin, often leaving children shivering from morning to night. Many were falling ill. In fact, some of them had not survived the winter, which had been particularly harsh. The reputation of the school, which Hannibal had heard when he lived with his uncle and aunt, had unfortunately proved true. And every day, every week, every month in Lowood was a torture for the boy, who was worried about his little sister.

Mischa, from her five years old, had lost several pounds, making her skinny and smaller than the others. Her pink, round cheeks had become slightly hollow and white. Hannibal, outside the hours when he could go to see his younger sister, sometimes managed to sneak into the part of the school reserved for girls, bringing with him a piece of bread or a dry cake. He hoped that this additional ration would soothe the hunger that was on the girl's face.

“Lecter!” Phyllis Crawford suddenly shouted, sometimes monitoring the different classes when she was not teaching.

The wife of the director of the boarding school walked quickly towards the boy, who had been surprised to no longer listen and recite the lesson.

“I will not have you before me in that attitude.” She shouted again, before pointing to a spot on the ground with her wooden wand that was used to punish bad students.

Hannibal stood up and slipped between his classmates to reach the area indicated by Mrs. Crawford. He turned, bent his back and clenched his teeth, ready to take the hits. The teacher gripped the boy by one shoulder, raised her wand and prepared to hit the orphan's back. Her gesture was then stopped by the arrival of Mr. Crawford in the room.

The man sometimes came to inspect classes, trying, like his wife, to flush out bad students to punish them. His visits were irregular, but still inspired terror for most children. The man, dressed in his black tunic, was feared and respected by all. He was often unfair and crueller than his wife about corporal punishment. He also liked to humiliate those who were not on the "right path" as he often liked to say.

“All rise.” One of the teachers asked the students.

The children quickly executed this order. Mischa, who looked horrified at the scene she saw, had also risen, holding her slate between her little hands.

“I see you are mortifying this boy's flesh.” The clergyman said.  
“Sir, he was not...”  
“It is your mission to render him contrite and self-denying. Continue.” The man indicated, not letting his interlocutor continue her answer.

Mrs. Crawford approached Hannibal again, gripping his shoulder once more, performing the same gestures she had begun before her husband's visit. But unlike last time, she could hit the boy's back with her wand.

One. Two. Three time. At each stroke that Hannibal took, the child tried to suppress a cry of suffering. Normally, he was quite resistant and knew how to ignore pain. But with the fatigue and hunger that often tugged at him, his body was exhausted and had a hard time withstanding the blows. It was with the fifth hit by the wand that the boy let out a whimper of pain. A whimper that was enough to Mischa to drop her slate, which broke into several pieces on the ground. Shocked by the scene she was watching, her eyes filled with tears, her arms had lost the strength to hold the object.

“The little sister.” Mr. Crawford whispered, who had turned back after the sound of the impact.

His wife had stopped the corporal punishment, looking sternly at the girl, ready to start a new punishment. Hannibal looked at his younger sister with a grievous look on his face. He was afraid for her and for the suffer she will have to endure.

*******

“This is the pedestal of infamy, and you will remain upon it all day long. You will have neither food nor drink, for you must learn how barren is the life of a sinner. Children, I exhort you to shun her, exclude her, shut her out from this day forth. Withhold the hand of friendship and deny your love to Mischa Lecter, the liar.”

Thus had been announced the punishment of the girl, after having to climb on a wooden stool. Hannibal had very been frightening when Mischa had to walk to the Crawfords, fearing that his little sister would suffer the same fate as him. She was so small, so fragile, that the wooden stick would be strong enough to crush the child, breaking several bones. But, instead of blows, the school principal had decided that the student would be punished both physically and mentally. And Hannibal had not been able to intervene, to help his younger sister, for he himself had been quickly taken away by one of the teachers to another room, where he was locked up until the evening meal.

*******

Mischa had cried for a long time, but had not dared to pronounce a sound, lest her punishment would become more severe if one of the adults heard her sob. Her tears had flowed silently down her cheeks for several hours until exhaustion. Night was slowly falling and several teachers were lighting the candles to light the rooms. And the child, still standing on her stool, was waiting to be able to go away. But the order did not come.

The boys had just finished their meal and were going back to their dormitory. Hannibal, who had had permission to eat, had managed to hide a piece of bread in one of his sleeves. When his group passed near his little sister, he slowed his pace, to be the last in line. With a quick gesture, he rushed to the girl to ask forgiveness in their mother tongue. The two children squeezed together, taking advantage of this tender embrace to ask how each one was going. Then, after a few seconds, Hannibal slipped into the little fingers of Mischa the piece of bread he had kept for her, kissed her forehead, and asked her again for forgiveness. He then hurried back to the line that had advanced without him, by running silently.


	4. Chapter 4

It was the beginning of summer and the temperatures were starting to be milder. Some days were still very rainy, but the atmosphere was much nicer than the one that had been during the winter. A few months had passed since Hannibal and Mischa had been punished by turns. And at the beginning of this afternoon, the two children took advantage of the few moments that they could share together.

“Mrs. Crawford hits us to improve us. She's tormented by our faults.” The little girl whispered to her brother, while they were hidden in the shade of a grove.  
“If she hit you, I'd get that birch and break it under her nose.”  
“She'd find another soon enough. And father used to preach that life's too short to spend in nursing animosity.”

Hannibal looked at his little sister and was surprised by her words. It was rare that she mentioned one of their parents and especially their father. Mischa was more attached to their mother and due to being more a believer than her brother, she more often quoted the words of their pious mother. What a shock when he heard the little girl utter these words of wisdom, which came from their late father.

After a few seconds of astonishment, Hannibal began to think to find an answer to this sentence. But he found nothing relevant to say and only breathed a sigh. It was true, life was too short to pass to hate others. Lady Murasaki was the perfect example for the young boy: she was everything he did not want to be or become as an adult.

“At our aunt's house, we were solitary and despised. She thought we could do without one bit of love or kindness.” Hannibal murmured.  
“You are loved, Hannibal.” Mischa answered his interlocutor, smiling fondly at him.

The child was again surprised and moved by the words of this little sister who had grown up in such a short time, without him realizing it. He approached her and hugged her. If he had not been his big brother, if he did not have to be so strong and brave for Mischa, he would probably have let himself go in her arms. He would have liked to cry for a few moments during this hug, but Hannibal refused, swallowing his tears and continuing to play the big brother protector.

“Mother also said that there's an invisible world all around us, a kingdom of spirits commissioned to guard us. Do you not see them, Hannibal?”

*******

“Hannibal?”

Margot advanced slowly towards the man, after having observed him at distance. For several minutes he had stopped drawing, looking at the landscape through the window, lost in his reflections. It was by hearing his name that the man awoke, then looking at the young woman, before smiling.

“Have you something for me to do?”  
“You're doing something already. May I see?” She asked, blushing, after pointing to the sheets of paper that lay on Hannibal's lap.

He nodded and let Margot get closer to him, to show her the few drawings he had sketched. The young woman leaned over and gazed in amazement at the whole, blown away by the quality of the portraits which were on the various sheets. She took some of them, to observe the sketches more closely.

“These are wonderful.” Exclaims Margot, always impressed by Hannibal's artistic talent.

She looked at the man again, who was smiling at her, as if he was happy to see the happiness that his drawings could bring to the young woman. She was younger than Hannibal, and her frankness, the freshness she gave off, reminded him of good memories of a lost era. Although he had shown very little, he appreciated Margot. They would probably never be close friends, they would probably remain mere acquaintances, but that was enough for the man. He did not want to bond with people anymore, preferring the company of loneliness and silence.

Margot, who had begun to look again at the drawings, realized that one of the portraits was particularly familiar to her.

“St. Mason...” Suddenly the young woman exclaimed, rushing to her brother, who was working in a corner of the room, to show him the drawing.  
“No, Margot, please...” Hannibal murmured, getting up to catch up with the clergyman's sister.

Quicker than the man, Margot showed the work to her brother, who looked at it attentively. Cordell, who was sitting next to St. Mason, looked at the drawing as well, before he began to smile at the sight of it, when he realized why the young woman wanted to show it to her eldest.

“See how skilled Hannibal is.” Margot exclaimed again.

The clergyman grabbed the sheet of paper, looking at the portrait that had been drawn. Surprised by the subject of the work, he opened his mouth before closing it, to smoke his pipe. A cloud of tobacco escaped his lips when he spoke.

“Is this how you perceive me, Sir Fell?” St. Mason asked, looking at his portrait, which Hannibal had drawn.

The two men then observed each other in silence, for a few seconds. Then, without answering, Hannibal sat back in his chair, still looking at Margot's brother.

“Well. How fierce I am.” St. Mason added, looking again at his portrait, which seemed to stare at him with a cold look.

*******

“Hannibal.” Mischa murmured as she saw her big brother.

Slowly, she held out her little hand to the boy.

“You're freezing. Your little feet are bare. Go back into your bed and cover yourself.” The child murmured again to her elder.

It had been more than a year since the two children lived in Lowood. Winter had arrived again, but this time, earlier. In November, which was almost over, temperatures were already freezing and there was an epidemic of tuberculosis in the school. Several students had already fallen ill, some even died. And unfortunately, Mischa had caught this terrible disease.

After several attempts, the young Hannibal had managed to escape from his dormitory, to join the one of the girls. He could not leave his little sister, while this one was suffering. Tuberculosis had weakened the six-year-old child, who was already too thin for her age. Her emaciated face, which had once been round and resplendent with health, was pale and sweaty. Her white skin and pink cheeks had long since disappeared.

Mischa coughed, her little body trembling after every fifth. Hannibal then leaned toward her, lifting the thin blankets, before slipping into his sister's bed. He was cold, or as the little girl had told him, he was frozen. But the boy refused to go back to his own bed, preferring to stay with his sister. In her child and big brother's mind, Hannibal hoped that his presence would comfort Mischa, giving her more strength to fight the disease, while her body would warm up enough to soothe the chills that ran through the girl.

During some time, the two orphans looked at each other, while holding their hands.

“How are you?” The boy dared to ask.  
“I'm happy, Hannibal. I'm going home.” Mischa murmured.  
“What do you mean?”

The young boy watched his little sister, while moving a blond curl that had fallen on her face. He did not understand what Mischa had meant.

“I'm going to God. I'm going to see father and mother again.” The child replied.

Hannibal could not restrain his tears. He squeezed the little cold hand he held, clinging to it in a desperate way. He knew that this gesture was futile. He knew, despite his twelve years, how deadly tuberculosis was. And he knew that Mischa, his adorable little sister, the person he loved and cherished the most in the world, was soon going to leave him.

“Don't be sad. You have a passion for living, Hannibal. And one day you'll come to the region of bliss.” The girl whispered again, before coughing again.

Her brother kept crying, watching her silently. He wanted to shout to her that there was still hope and that she had no right to leave him. He also wanted to scream at her how sorry he was to not have been able to protect her, as he had promised. And finally, he would have liked to tell her how much he loved her with all his soul, with all his little heart, which broke as the minutes passed together. But the words would die in his throat, which was tied. And Hannibal remained silent, listening to Mischa, while letting the tears run down his face.

“Don't leave me. I like to have you near.” The little girl added, who was gradually beginning to fall into the arms of Morpheus.

Mischa, since her birth, had been like his shadow, his double, or even, like his own child. And soon, she would not be here anymore.

“I will not leave you.” Hannibal succeeds to murmur.

He got close enough to his little girl, to place a kiss on her wet forehead.

“No one shall take me from you.” He added.

The two children fell asleep in each other's arms.

*******

The next morning, one of the teachers discovered the two orphans. Assisted by another colleague, the two adults quickly noticed the death of the little girl, who was lying near her big brother still asleep. The woman covered the little dead body of the girl with a white sheet, after having recited a short prayer, while the man lifted the boy, gently taking him in his arms, to avoid waking him.

As he moved slowly away from Mischa's bed, Hannibal woke up and saw a few blond curls protruding from the sheet. He began squirming to free himself from the teacher's arms, but the adult held firm. Despite all his efforts, the future Count Lecter did not manage to escape, only screaming the name of his little sister, he would never see again.

“Mischa! Mischa!”


	5. Chapter 5

Hannibal watched the cart drive away, taking Margot with it, who was leaving to study far from home. The young woman turned one last time to greet her brother and Cordell, as well as this man still so mysterious that they had rescued a few weeks before. Then, she disappeared in the thick fog that gradually covered the moor.

“Mr. Verger? I wondered if you had yet heard of any work I could do.” Hannibal suddenly asked of his host, who was at his side.  
“I found you a situation some time ago, but I've delayed telling you because the work is lowly and I fear you'll scorn it.” St. Mason replied.  
“I shan't mind what I do.”

The man advanced towards his interlocutor, to reach his height and thus, to look him in the eyes. The first wanted to prove his determination to want to do a job, while the other tried to judge the veracity of the words he had just heard. Finally, the clergyman sighed, before resuming the conversation, while heading to their home. Cordell followed them, preferring to remain silent and behind them.

“When I took over the parish two years ago, it had no school. I opened one for boys. I now intend to open one for girls. The schoolmistress will have a cottage paid for by benefactors and she'll receive 15 a year. You can see how humble is it. And since you are also a man, I did not want to horrify you with this proposal.”  
“Mr. Rivers, thank you. I accept. With all my heart.” Hannibal replied, politely smiling at his interlocutor.  
“But you comprehend me? 'Tis a village school, cottagers' daughters. What will you do with all your fine accomplishments?” The man asked, surprised by the answer he had.  
“I will save them till they're wanted. They will keep.”

*******

St. Mason was putting the logs in a corner of the living room so that the new schoolmaster would not have to go chop some wood for the next few days. A little further, Hannibal swept the ground, trying to drive away the dust and dead leaves that littered the ground. Although the front door was open, the fire crackling in the stone fireplace warmed the modest home pleasantly. Exhausted after several hours of cleaning, he went outside to breathe some fresh air. The wind gently whipped his face, while a few strands of hair fell on his forehead slightly covered with sweat.

_Hannibal_

A voice called him. It was not the same he had heard the day he had met St. Mason and the others. No, that voice belonged to someone else. A person whom Hannibal had given up, closing his heart forever. To think of this person was unbearable and far too painful for him. Too many tears had been shed for this one, and the man refused to shed any more, despite the pain that dragged him every day that he continued to live. Then, as if to chase away the voice, Hannibal ran a hand through his hair, trying to put some order in his slightly unkempt appearance. He inhaled again a big gulp of fresh air, closing his eyes for a moment, to open them again and observe the desert moor that surrounded the house.

After a few seconds to contemplate the landscape, the man decided to return to his new home. St. Mason was waiting for him in the hall, having finished his task and ready to go home. He tried to dust off his coat and his outfit, while starting to address the new master of the place.

“You will be quite alone here.”  
“I'm not afraid of solitude. Do not worry, this is not the first time I'm independent. Thank you, Mr. St. Mason.” Hannibal answered calmly, putting that strange, polite smile back on his face.

St. Mason looked at him, nodded, and turned to the wall behind him, to take his hat which was hanging from an old coat hook, before pushing it on his head. He also retrieved his staff, which helped him to walk to his home on long walks he sometimes did, before observing his former guest again. For a few seconds, he tried to decipher the thoughts of the man who continued to smile at him, but with no success. Hannibal was and remained an enigma. Then the clergyman advanced to the front door.

“It is small and plain, as I told you.”  
“Then it'll suit me very well.” The new teacher replied.

These were the last words they exchanged before leaving each other.

*******

“Safe journey, Mister Lecter.”

The children of the Lowood Institute surrounded Hannibal and all tried to say goodbye to him. The young man, now of twenty years old, had spent nine long years at the school, including several as a teacher, which allowed him to save some money. But it was time for him to leave this place, which he had never been able to call home. After all, how could he? It was here that Mischa and he had been abandoned by their aunt. It was here too that they had suffered from hunger and cold. But above all, it was here that his dear and lovely little sister was dead. And this indelible memory, like a burn on his skin, did not allow him to keep a single pleasant thought of this school.

“Godspeed.”

As he walked towards the exit, Hannibal continued to smile politely at the children. It was an expression he had managed to adopt over the years, allowing him to become a kind of enigma, a man that was hard to decipher, to understand. He liked that fake smile, which had become for him a kind of shield, protecting his true thoughts and emotions.

“Goodbye, Mister Lecter.”

For a brief moment Hannibal began to think of the few years he had been taught at Lowood. He had tried to make life a little nicer and sweeter to these poor orphans, by being a less severe teacher than his colleagues, loved by his students and teaching them concepts that would allow them to live a decent future life. But the memory of Mischa had never ceased to haunt him and made him want only one thing: to leave this place he had hated since his arrival.

“Safe journey.”

The young man had become, since the death of his younger sister, an empty person, cold in appearance and often acting mechanically. He had never forgiven himself the death of his sister, thinking that all of this was a kind of divine punishment due to his behavior of the time. He often thought that if he had been less filled with hate, then maybe God would had let Mischa survive. Thus, over the years, Hannibal had become somehow more believing person, although his logical and rational side was still present. Mischa's words, which were often quotations from religious texts, sometimes resonated in his head, as if the little girl had become that little voice of reason that warned him of the dangers and mistakes to not commit, when his mind went astray. Mischa was his guardian angel, the one who watched over him, as he had done when she was still alive.

“Boys! Girls!” A female voice cried dryly.

Hannibal had arrived at the front door, which was already open. Mr. and Mrs. Crawford stood there under one of the trees, hiding in the shadow. The woman, whose dark hair was now dotted with gray and white locks and who was always looking strict and cold, looked this former pupil, now a professor, leaving the establishment she ran with her husband. This once was also looking at Hannibal with a bad eye, something that had not changed since their first meeting. The young man stared at them for a few seconds, quickly thinking again to all those years of humiliation and abuse he had had to endure, to try to wash his body which was, according to the Crawford, impure.

“Goodbye.”

This was the only word Hannibal spoke to the couple, before continuing his journey, more determined than ever to leave Lowood. He would not turn around and he would never come back here. He had promised himself, after bidding farewell to Mischa the day before his departure, cleaning and blooming for the last time the tomb of this little girl he had loved so much.

*******

For several years, Hannibal had traveled the cities and the English countryside, exercising various jobs which had allowed him to acquire new skills. But also, which had allowed him to access again libraries, whose books were full of knowledge that he had regretted not being able to study at the Lowood Institute. The intelligent and quick-witted child he had been, had become a man of sharp mind and eager for new acquaintances, but also gifted in all the fields that had hitherto been presented to him. A teacher, cook, musician, librarian, or assistant to a doctor, Hannibal had no trouble learning the trades he had done, to finally excel in them. However, after a few months or years, the young man always ended up leaving the place where he had settled, constantly looking for a place where he would finally feel at home.

Thus, at the age of twenty-seven, Hannibal Lecter was traveling in a carriage, which took him to his new job. He had heard, a few weeks before, that they were looking for a governess, to perfect the education of a young girl of good family. He then applied for the job and had set out as soon as he received a favorable response to his application.


	6. Chapter 6

“Thornfield, sir.” The driver of the carriage shouted to his passenger.

Despite of the falling night, Hannibal observed through the window of the car, the huge building that stood out in the distance, through the branches of trees. The house looked old, imposing and reflected a gloomy image, with its towers and walls made of dark gray stones. Parts of the building seemed to be falling apart, which could reinforce this terrifying aspect. But the man paid no attention to the appearance of the house. He came here to work, to perfect a girl's education, not to judge the exterior and interior of his new home.

As they approached, large wooden doors opened, letting them enter in the paved courtyard. A servant was waiting for them, a lantern in his hand.

*******

The man, who introduced himself as Brian Zeller, drove Hannibal through the mansion. After a few minutes of silent walking, they reached the kitchen. A large fireplace, which was also probably used to prepare and cook the various dishes, warmed the room pleasantly. The new teacher could smell the parfum of the previous meals that had been cooked a few hours earlier. The smells were mixed with the various aromas emitted by the spices and herbs and which littered the few shelves. Although he did not express any emotions on his face, Hannibal appreciated the whole thing that presented itself to him. Everything reminded him of pleasant memories of his childhood, something that was quite rare.

“Wait here, sir.” Brian whispered suddenly, before taking the man's suitcase and leaving him alone in the room.

For long seconds Hannibal watched the kitchen. He tried to memorize everything he saw, to immerse himself in the place and understand how it works. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he could see that the corridor, into which the servant had disappeared a short time ago, was lighting up again. A figure was moving towards the man, a candlestick in the hand. It was a woman, around her fifty, dressed in a beautiful and thick dark tartan dress. The white lace collar she wore was decorated with a brooch, while a leather belt showed the thin size of the unknown. Her blond hair was tied up in a bun and covered with an elegant white lace hat. She was beautiful and had a majestic air.

“How do you do, my dear?” She asked politely against the young man, after having arrived at his side.

Hannibal observed that she wore a smile similar to the one he often wore. Strangely, this aspect charmed him and he quickly realized that this person would be someone with whom he would get along well, despite their differences.

“Are you Mrs. Du Maurier?”  
“Indeed I am.” The woman replied, in a voice both low and smooth.

With a gesture of the head, she invited Hannibal to follow her, before leaving in the direction of the corridor from which she had come. The young man followed her, while continuing to observe the place. They then quickly arrived in a living room, which was also lit and warmed by a chimney fire. Two other servants, a man and a woman, were also present in the room, each holding a candlestick, which allowed them to light their paths. Mrs. Du Maurier stopped walking, before turning to Hannibal to speak to him.

“What a tedious journey you must have had. Your hands must be frozen. Here.”

She waved her hand to bring the other two people, before removing Hannibal's hat. The man and woman helped him remove the thick coat he was wearing. The glow of the candles then allowed the three people to better see the new inhabitant of Thornfield. And as Hannibal had predicted, the image he sent back shocked them.

When he was younger, the man was a child like any other. Like Mischa, he had round cheeks and little pink lips. But over the years, his appearance had changed. He knew that his face was uncommon, due to his high and prominent cheekbones, his eyebrows and his chin a little pronounced, or his plump upper lip, which gave a pout to his mouth. And more than once, lit only by candlelight, his face could look more like a skull, like those you could see in paintings or cabinets of curiosities. For some people, his well-lit face looked like death, or the idea they had of it, which had frightened many. However, he also knew that this strange physique and the way he had learned to stand, to speak, had charmed his audience more than once, men and women alike. But the young man of twenty-seven was not very interested and focused on sex, romantic relationships, or simply, relationships with people. Loneliness was its lover and he enjoyed its company, to the point of not suffering the idea of ending his life alone. Thus, when Mrs. Du Maurier let out a sort of hiccup of surprise, in view of Hannibal's physique, this one stood ready to smile and respond as sweetly as possible, to comfort and appease the woman's fears.

“Goodness. How young you are.” She exclaimed.

The young man watched for a moment his interlocutor, surprised by her words. It was the first time that one spoke of his physical in these terms. And he found it so funny, that he suppressed a chuckle, before speaking in his turn.

“I'm quite experienced, I can assure you.” He replied with a smile.  
“Of course you are. I'm sure we're very lucky to have you.”

Mrs. Du Maurier looked at Hannibal again, before starting to speak again, but this time addressing to one of the servants.

“Beverly, would you ask Brian to bring a little hot port and cut a sandwich or two?”

The young woman of Asian origin shook her head, before leaving to perform the task that had been ordered. Mrs. Du Maurier then gently took the young man's arm to accompany him to the fireplace.

“Draw nearer the fire. Jimmy is taking your trunk up to your room.”

The man, who had helped to take Hannibal's coat, had disappeared in turn, to accomplish his mission. There remained in the room only the young teacher and his interlocutor, who had settled in the sofas.

“I've put you at the back of the house, I hope you don't mind. The rooms at the front have much finer furniture, but they're so gloomy and solitary, I think.”

Mrs. Du Maurier sighed and looked again at the man standing in front of her, before sketching a sincerer and warmer smile on her lips. Of her still low voice, she spoke again.

“I'm glad you're come. To be sure, this is a grand old house, but I must confess that in winter one can feel a little dreary and alone. Beverly's a very nice girl, and Brian and Jimmy are good people, too, but they are servants. One cannot talk to them on terms of equality”.

Hannibal listened, carefully noting every piece of information the woman gave him. When she had finished speaking, he shook his head while applying his polite smile to his lips, as if to reply and approve the words he had heard. He had just arrived and he could not afford to displease his employer. His bodily gestures indicated that he approved Mrs. Du Maurier, while his heart and mind could not help but think that it was nonsense. The small voice of Mischa resonated in his head.

_Have courage and be kind with everyone._

*******

“Am I meeting Miss Du Maurier tonight?” Hannibal asked to the blond woman as she led him to his room, lighting the stairs with their candles.  
“Who?” She answered, surprised by the question.  
“Miss Du Maurier, my pupil?”  
“Oh, you mean Miss Hobbs, Mr. Graham's ward. She's to be your pupil.”  
“Who's Mr. Graham?” The young man asked.

Mrs. Du Maurier stopped on the landing to turn around and observe the young man, surprised again by this strange question.

“Why, the owner of Thornfield. Mr. William Edward Graham*.”  
“I thought Thornfield Hall belonged to you.” Hannibal replied, somewhat disconcerted by the information he had just learned.

The woman was shaken with a brief burst of laughter, before speaking again, trying to regain her seriousness.

“Bless you, child, what an idea. Me? I'm only the housekeeper.”  
“Forgive me.” The young man murmured, as his interlocutor began to walk again.  
“There is a distant connection between Mr. Graham and me, his mother was a relative, but I'd never presume on it. Heavens. Me, owner of Thornfield?”

She then entered into a long corridor, which was covered with various paintings. The flames of the candles illuminated them sufficiently that Hannibal could enjoy their sight and look at them quickly, while following the housekeeper. It was mainly mythological paintings, depicting famous scenes from Greco-Roman antiquity. On his left, he could admire a naked Venus, lying on her back and accompanied by her son Cupid. While on his right, a work represented Leda and the swan, a well-known story. Seeing all these pictures before him, and although they were essentially copies of masterpieces, Hannibal gave a sincere smile. He was happy to see that the owner of the place, the famous William Edward Graham, had good taste, which suggested that he was surely cultivated and perhaps even had an interesting library. The young man began to imagine everything and dream for a brief moment, on the fact that it would be very pleasant to teach all this knowledge to his future pupil, under such conditions.

“We shall have a cheerful house this winter. With Miss Hobbs here and with you, we'll have quite a merry time of it. I'm sure that last winter, and what a severe one it was, if it didn't rain it snowed, if it didn't snow it blew. I declare, not one soul came to the house from November to February.”

Mrs. Du Maurier and Hannibal arrived in front of a wooden door, which the woman opened, allowing them to enter into a second corridor, while speaking again. The young man continued to listen, looking again at the pictures and objects that decorated the scene, while trying to remember the path they had traveled. This map of Thornfield, which was drawn in his mind, would be treasured in a corner of his memory palace, like all the other important information he kept.

“When spring finally came, I thought it a great relief I hadn't gone distracted.” Mrs. Du Maurier concluded, before being shaken again with a brief laugh.

Finally, they arrived in front of Hannibal's room. The housekeeper opened the door, letting in its new occupant.

“I've had Bryan lay a fire. I hope you'll be comfortable.”

The room was large and very nice. There was a good temperature, thanks to the heat provided by the stone fireplace. Its walls were covered with a cream tapestry and was lit by several candles, which made it pleasant and cozy. The bed, which was near the door, was covered with dated blue and white bedding, but which smelled clean and seemed comfortable. In front of this piece of furniture was Hannibal's trunk and his suitcase. Inside was all the possessions of the young man he had acquired over the years. But his most important belongings were and remained locked up in the memory palace he had built up little by little.

Hannibal walked a little deeper into the room to find out more. In a corner, a dressing table with a mirror allowed the occupant to check and look after his appearance. Beside the furniture, a dresser was present and would allow the young man to stow his clothes and other belongings. On its top, an empty carafe and a pot, intended to receive hot water for the toilet, adorned the whole. Some paintings decorated the room, mainly Japanese prints, which had been probably brought back to England, following the exploits of Commodore Perry**. The contrast between the old and the modern might seem strange, but the professor appreciated and found the whole charming.

*******

It was daylight and it was a ray of sunshine, tickling Hannibal's face, which woke him up. The man slowly opened his eyes, quickly remembering where he was, before closing his eyelids to bury his head slightly in the pillow. He smelled the perfume of the clean sheets, letting out a groan of pleasure from the bottom of his throat. He could feel the sun warm his nape, as well as the room, which made it possible to keep a pleasant temperature, even though the chimney fire had gone out at night. For the first time in a long time, he had slept well. His night had not been filled with nightmares or morbid visions of his parents and his sister Mischa.

Hannibal finally stretched himself out on the bed, to wake up his body still numb with sleep, before getting up. He opened the thick curtains, to bring full daylight into the room. He had not been able to see it last night, due to the darkness of the night, but his window had a view to a part of the garden. He could then observe the servants Brian and Jimmy, who were chatting happily together as they were gardening.

*******

“We must open the window in the study today to let in some air.” Mrs. Du Maurier said to Beverly, who was cleaning the few crystal glasses, which were on the large mahogany table of the dining room.

The young professor was coming down the stairs when he warned of his presence. He was dressed in a thick khaki suit that was a little old and worn out, but that, despite everything, still gave him a good look and a certain charm.

“I've never seen such an ancient old house. How beautifully you've preserved it.”  
“Well, Mr. Graham's visits are always unexpected. He doesn't like to arrive and find everything all swathed up, so I keep it in constant readiness.” The housekeeper said, smiling and observing the room.

She sighed, then gestured to Hannibal to tell him that he should follow her.

“Now, come and meet Miss Hobbs.” She added.

The blonde woman walked to the stairs, before turning to look at the professor.

“Did I mention she's French***?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *In "Jane Eyre", the character of Rochester is called Edward Fairfax Rochester and his second name, Fairfax, so binds him to Mrs. Fairfax, his housekeeper. But in this fic, although the two characters are also linked by their family, I did not see myself calling Will Du Maurier Graham. As a result, I preferred to take the name Edward as the second name and put William, instead of Will, to further show his rank of aristocrat, rich owner. In addition, it is a nod to the other actors who played Will Graham in addition to Hugh Dancy, namely, William Petersen ("Manhunter", 1986) and Edward Norton ("Red Dragon", 2002).
> 
> **The story of Jane Eyre takes place more or less at the same time as her author, Charlotte Brontë, around 1847. Except that Commodore Perry sailed to Japan in 1853. So, for this story, I decided that it would take place a few years after this event, around 1855-1860. But it's just a detail.
> 
> ***In this translated version, the text will be in French.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See the notes at the end for the translation of Abigail dialogues.

“ _Frédéric a pleuré car personne ne nous comprend._  
“ _Abigail, s’il te plait !_ ”

The girl, who was Hannibal's new pupil, was about ten years old. She was trying to stand up straight in front of her audience, composed of her teacher and Mrs. Du Maurier, in addition to a young woman who was behind her and who had corrected her. But the child had the annoying habit of squirming on herself, as if the urge to move itched. Her long brown hair contrasted with her white skin and large pale blue eyes. Some freckles adorned her cheeks and forehead, in addition to blue ribbons that held a few strands of hair. The child seemed adorable and full of life, in her beige tartan dress.

The one who had accompanied Abigail since her departure from France and watched over her, was named Frédérique Lounds (sometimes nicknamed Freddie by the child). She was about sixteen years old and had ample curly red hair, which she had tried to tie in a bun, but some strands of hair escaped despite everything. Dressed in a simple black dress, which was adorned with a white collar and an apron of the same color, Frédérique had sat and waited patiently behind her protegee. She was trying to remove the shame and redness that had appeared on her face, when Abigail had talked about her.

“ _Personne ne peut nous parler, sauf M. Graham. Mais il est parti._ ” The child sighed.

Hannibal watched the two girls in front of him, without making a sound. He spoke French and had no trouble to understand the words of his pupil and those of Frédérique. Mrs. Du Maurier, or Bedelia, as she had indicated in a previous conversation, was seated beside the professor and had not understood a word of the conversation. This did not prevent her from asking, beforehand, to the professor to be her translator.

“Will you ask her about her parents? Mr. Graham neglected to tell me anything about her.” The blonde woman asked.

The man looked at her for a moment before nodding and turning to his pupil again to ask him a question in French. His accent, a mixture of English and Lithuanian, rolled over his tongue, making the child smile.

“ _Où vivais-tu Abigail, avant de venir à Thornfield ?_ ”  
“ _Avec maman, mais elle est partie avec la Sainte Vierge maintenant._ ”

Hannibal smiled at his pupil as if to try to comfort her and show her that she should not be afraid to speak with him. Then he translated the whole thing to the housekeeper.

“Her mother has passed away.”  
“Oh!” Mrs. Du Maurier murmured.  
“ _Mais maman m’apprenait à danser et à réciter des poèmes. Elle me laissait toujours m’asseoir sur les genoux des messieurs qui venaient lui rendre visite. Et chanter pour eux. Puis-je chanter pour vous monsieur ?_ ” The girl quickly spoke, happy to be able to show some of her talents.  
“ _Ce serait ravissant._ ” Hannibal answered, smiling fondly at her.

The girl moved away a bit from her audience, to be able to occupy a more adequate space for her performance. She turned around before twisting slightly so that only her back and a small part of her face were visible.

“Abigail is going to show us her accomplishments.” The young man said to Mrs. Du Maurier, who had watched the scene with curiosity.

Then, trying to be as graceful as possible, the girl began to move her little arms, to complete her pose, before starting. She began to sing, while adopting various postures that she must have seen and learned alongside her mother, when she had performed on the stage of Parisian theaters or in private salons. The whole thing made it a little unhealthy, seeing a child play a role too mature for her age.

“ _Comment le fuir ?_  
 _Et le bannir ?_  
 _Le moyen…_  
 _Ah, mon Dieu,_  
 _Je l’ignore._  
 _Je veux ici,_  
 _L’oublier, oui !_  
 _Je le veux et je le voise,_  
 _Encore !_ ”

Abigail bowed, showing to her audience that the performance was over. The child was smiling, happy with what she had just done, while Frédérique was blushing, embarrassed by the artistic performance that had been performed. Older, the young woman knew that this love song was not suitable for a girl.

“How very French.” Bedelia concluded, a little dry, which denoted with the polite smile she displayed.

*******

During the days and weeks that followed, Hannibal taught Abigail the basics of the English language. With the child's toys, he showed her and indicated the various translations she could use. The little girl was smart, but it was hard to get her attention for several hours. The man had then to adopt various methods of teaching, trying to continue his lessons through the games and the various activities that he proposed to the girl. He was gentle and patient with her, conversing in both French and English, to the delight of his pupil. She had quickly adopted and adored this strange young man, who had a funny accent when he spoke French, which often made her smile.

On certain points, Abigail reminded Hannibal of her little sister. But the two children were very different and the man did not project the image of Mischa on his pupil. He considered her as a person in her own right, with her own personality. It was during the sessions that he had learned to discover her and to know a little more about her story. She had told him, for example, that her name and surname had been chosen by her mother, an American living for a very long time in France. She had met Mr. Graham in Paris, where she had worked as an actress. And that she had entrusted her child to the wealthy owner of Thornfield shortly before her death.

Frédérique, who always accompanied Abigail, remained mostly silent. She embroidered or helped the teacher in the activities he was doing with the child. Thus, on a sunny morning, all three had traveled the Thornfield's garden and surrounding area, picking various flowers, herbs and plants, to create an herbarium in the afternoon.

*******

“"I shall leave and walk into town." "Do not go," begged her maid. "The Gytrash roams these hills."”  
“ _Qu’est-ce ?_ ” The girl asked her teacher, who was reading a tale.  
“A spirit of the North that lies in wait for travelers. It tenants the carcasses of beasts, possesses horses, wolves, great dogs. You know it only by its eyes, which burn as red as coals, and if one should chance upon you...”  
“ _Quoi ? Qu’est-ce qu’il fera ?_ ” The child murmured, frightened by the words of her teacher, who in his soft and melodic voice had managed to transport her into the world of the imagination.  
“Nothing. A mere story.” Hannibal answered, trying to reassure his student by smiling at her.

The young man liked Abigail's company, with whom he could sometimes smile sincerely. He continued to wear his mask sometimes, like a shield, so as not to attach too much to those around him. But the little girl was very natural, full of life, often talking about everything and nothing, which had the gift to make smile, even bring a few chuckles to Hannibal, to his own surprise.

While Frédérique had just left the room, to bring back the tea service that had been used, and that Hannibal picked up the things that were lying on the floor, after reading the book, Abigail began to talk.

“ _Freddie m’a raconté qu’il y a une dame qui se promène dans cette maison, le soir. Je ne l’ai jamais vu, mais les gens disent qu’elle a des cheveux châtains, de la même couleur que le bois précieux, la peau blanche comme la lune et les yeux gris comme la fumée. Elle peut aussi traverser les murs._ ”

Hannibal continued to tidy up the room, listening attentively to his pupil, although he was perplexed by the story. This one had also silently approached her teacher, to try to scare him.

“ _Il y a des personnes qui disent qu’elle vient pour te sucer le sang._ ” Abigail whispered, before jumping at the man's neck, as if to attack him, and make a groan.

The young teacher remained unmoved by the attack, moving only his body so that the weight of the girl is well distributed and she can fall back on her feet without hurting herself.

“What nonsense.” He answered, before taking the hand of his pupil.

*******

The afternoon was well underway and the sun was beginning to descend, to hide through the trees of the forest, which bordered the domain of Thornfield. Hannibal was gazing at the landscape from one of the windows of the library, a room he often occupied when he was not teaching Abigail. He liked to take refuge in books, to browse the many shelves, seeking the book he would read during his free hours. But for the moment, the young man was staring into the void, visiting a few rooms in his memory palace. He returned to the real world when he heard Mrs. Du Maurier approach him.

“Whatever brings you up here? I've been waiting to pour our tea.” The woman said, her voice still grave and soft.  
“I'm not in need of tea, thank you.” The professor replied, after turning around, smiling politely.

The housekeeper came a little closer to Hannibal, trying to understand why he seemed sad, while to comfort him.

“It's a quiet life, isn't it? This isolated house, a still doom for a young man.”

The teacher turned around and looked at Bedelia, before sighing. He began to confide, as if to relieve a small part of the pain that sometimes gnawed at him. The books allowed him to escape, his memory palace allowed him many things as well, but the imaginary and the reality were two very different things. And to live these fantasies through the books read and what he built in his head, sometimes had a bitter taste.

“I wish I could have action in my life, like many men. It agitates me to pain that the skyline over there is ever our limit. I long sometimes for a power of vision that would overpass it. If I could behold all I imagine... I've never seen foreign countries. And I fear my whole life will pass...”

Hannibal interrupted himself, realizing that his remarks were no doubt offensive to the woman who had employed him and who, by her gender and condition, had never seen cities or traveled. It was not good to complain, while Bedelia had fewer possibilities and seemed to be content with what she had.

Mrs. Du Maurier looked at the young man, understanding the evil being who could devour him from the inside. She smiled at him, indicating that she had not, in any case, misunderstood his words, and that if he desired, she could stay by his side to listen more. But the teacher was silent, preferring to look at the landscape again.

“Now, exercise and fresh air, great cures for anything, they say. I have some letters to post. Will you take them?” The housekeeper added, before taking Hannibal's arm and driving him out of the library.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation of Abigail dialogues:
> 
> “Frédéric cried because nobody understands us.”  
> “Abigail, please!”
> 
> “No one can talk to us except Mr. Graham. But he's gone.”
> 
> “Where did you live Abigail before coming to Thornfield?”  
> “With mom, but she left with the Holy Virgin now.”
> 
> “But mom taught me to dance and recite poems. She always let me sit on the knees of the gentlemen who came to visit him. And sing for them. Can I sing for you sir?”  
> “That would be lovely.”
> 
> “How to run away from him?  
> And ban him?  
> The way…  
> Oh my god,  
> I do not know.  
> I want here,  
> Forget him, yes!  
> I want it and I said it again,  
> Again!”
> 
> “What is it?”  
> “What? What will it do?”
> 
> “Freddie told me that there is a lady walking around the house in the evening. I've never seen her, but people say she has brown hair, the same color as precious wood, white skin like the moon and gray eyes like smoke. She can also cross the walls.”
> 
> “There are people who say she comes to suck your blood.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See the notes at the end for the translation of Abigail dialogues.

Hannibal had been walking for about an hour. He had traveled the Thornfield estate, after crossing a small bridge and taking various steep paths, before entering the forest. It was in this one that he was now, following the road that would take him to the village, where he could leave the letters given by Mrs. Du Maurier. The sun was still going down and a thick fog had settled in, making the road more difficult due to the poor visibility. The young man was walking fast but slower than usual, having difficulty perceiving the few meters ahead. He was careful not to stumble, due to a rock or a tree root barely visible. The woods were silent and not a single sound was noticeable, as if the fog was made of cotton, making the sounds inaudible. All these accumulated details gave the place a very gloomy aspect. But Hannibal was not afraid and kept walking.

After a few minutes, however, he heard a strange noise. A sort of smothered sound that seemed to come from everywhere and from nowhere at once. Was it the fact that he had not heard anything for a long time, or simply curiosity, that drove the young man to deviate from his path to venture to the middle of the road? He himself could not answer that question. He paused, turning several times to try to hear new noises, which could have told him where the whole thing could come from. He also breathed deeply, to analyze the smells around him, trying again to perceive what could have caused the strange sound. But his extreme concentration did not allow him to see that a dark form was heading straight for him.

It was finally the neigh of a horse that brought him back to reality. The beast, having seen Hannibal as an obstacle, stopped abruptly before climbing on its hind legs. The animal arched so abruptly that it fell to the ground, disarming its horseman at the same time. This one let out a groan of pain from the fall.

“Up! Up, you cursed beast! Up!” He yelled at the horse, which was trying to get back on its feet.

The animal squirmed on itself for a few seconds. Its hooves scraped the ground, throwing several clumps of dirt in different directions, before being able to straighten up and move a few meters away from its horseman, who was still on the ground. He, in turn, tried to get up, fighting against the pain that his body sent him after his fall. Back on his feet, one leg slightly bent to alleviate the pain of one of his ankles, the horseman picked up his hat before facing Hannibal. The teacher was slowly moving towards the unknown, but he stopped quickly when a dog came between him and the stranger.

“Winston! And you, stand back.” The man said, still angry.  
“Are you injured, sir? May I be of some help?” Hannibal dare to ask.

The horseman trotted with difficulty towards the nearest tree, to be able to lean against it and catch his breath, while his dog followed him. He glared at the professor before speaking again.

“Where did you come from?”  
“Just below, at Thornfield Hall. I am the teacher. I'm on my way to post a letter. Can I fetch someone to help?”  
“The teacher? You may help me yourself. Get hold of his bridle and lead him to me.” The man ordered to Hannibal, pointing with one hand at the horse, which remained agitated.

The animal continued to emit a few neighs, scratching the floor with its hooves, as if trying to calm down. The young professor looked at the dark-robed creature, hesitating a few seconds as to how he should approach it, so as not to frighten it more.

“If you would be so kind.” The stranger added sarcastically.

Hannibal turned his head to the man for a brief moment. The fog, always very thick, made it difficult to fully appreciate the physics of the horseman. He looked older than the professor and was dressed in a dark suit with a white shirt. He held in his hands, which were gloved with leather, a black hat. His dark hair was a little messy and although a majority had remained behind, some rebellious curls protruded and were stuck to his forehead and wet temples. Sideburns, well shaved, went down to his jaw, which remained tense, while his cheeks and his chin were beardless. But the professor only saw one thing: it was the fact that this man seemed particularly rude and the cold look, filled with anger and impatience, did not seem to help change Hannibal's mind.

The young man then advanced towards the horse, gently stretching a hand to catch the leather bridle. The animal, although frightened, remained calm and let it go, even accepting some caresses.

“Help me to bring it back, instead of wanting to coax it. Or should I must beg you on my knees to please come here, sir? Please?” The man grumbled, whose patience dwindled as time passed.

Hannibal, who looked at the horseman again after the derogatory remark he had just received, displayed his polite smile on his lips, to avoid a gesture or a word he might regret. He walked in the direction of the unknown, the horse at his side, to be able to return his animal.

“Hold it.” The horseman indicated, who had put his hat, before climbing on the horse again.

Sitting again on his mount, firmly holding the bridles, the stranger looked at Hannibal, whose smile of facade had not left the lips. He scrutinized the young man from head to foot, as if to judge him, before speaking again, in a tone that was always so unfriendly.

“Make haste with your letter. For who knows what might lurk in these dark woods?”

The horseman then galloped away, his dog running by his side, to disappear quickly into the fog.

*******

A few hours later, Hannibal returned from his mission. Night had been falling for a long time, which had also brought down temperatures. Arriving in the living room, he walked towards the fireplace to warm up, removing at the same time his hat and his thick coat. Bedelia's voice was soon heard from a nearby room.

“Beverly, go and light the fire in the master's bedroom. And tell Brian to prepare for tea.”  
“Yes, ma'am.”

The two women came out of one of the doors of the living room, before leaving for the stairs. Mrs. Du Maurier then perceived Hannibal out of the corner of her eye, before staring at him with a stern look, as if she was surprised to see him here. She advanced with a quick step towards him, to address him.

“Where have you been? Mr. Graham's here. Go and change your clothes. He wishes to meet you. Beverly, take his cloak.” She told the maid, who had followed her.  
“I have to change?” Asked the teacher.  
“I always dress for the evening when Mr. Rochester's here.”  
“But all my suits are the same.”  
“You must have one that's better.”

The housekeeper seemed stressed by this sudden and unexpected arrival of the master of the house. She sighed, trying to chase her anguish, before speaking again.

“He's in a terrible humor. His horse fell in Hay Lane, and his ankle is sprained. He's at the doctor this half hour. Now, hurry up.”

*******

Hannibal slowly approached the door of Mr. Graham's room. He had understood, following the remarks of Mrs. Du Maurier, that the stranger met during his trip to the post office, was actually the owner of Thornfield and that this second meeting with him would be critical. Thus, he had decided to wear his blue suit, which was the newest and therefore the least used. But above all, it was the outfit that put him in the most value. The color of the outfit softened his angular features, while highlighting the color of his ashen blond hair, or that of his maroon eyes.

He knocked on the door, already open, to signal his presence, before entering. The room was huge and richly decorated. A fire had been lit in the big chimney of the bedroom, warming it pleasantly. Two armchairs had been arranged near the heat source and were currently occupied. One was taken by Hannibal's pupil, the little Abigail, who was dressed and coiffed in a very elegant manner, and who began to smile when she saw her teacher. In the other seat was Mr. Graham. But this one remained hidden, for the moment, by the back of the piece of furniture. The dog that the young man had seen a few hours earlier was lying near its master, sleeping soundly.

“ _Monsieur, voici M. Lecter._ ” The young Abigail indicated, after getting up from the armchair.

The nominee continued to move forward, moving slowly towards the girl, while discreetly observing Mr. Graham's silhouette, which was gradually becoming more precise as he progressed through the room. The man was smoking a cigarette while observing a few papers covered with various drawings. Sketches and works that Hannibal had drawn and tidy in his things, but which were now in the hands of a man decidedly very rude and disrespectful.

“Let him sit.” Mr. Graham ordered to the child, after blowing a puff of tobacco.

Showing his polite smile, as if ready to engage into a fight, the professor walked to the armchair, before sitting down there. Abigail joined his protector and sat at his feet, standing next to the now waking dog and silently watching the scene. In a corner of the room, the young Frédérique remained standing and was watching, too, in silence what was happening. The four individuals were quickly joined by Mrs. Du Maurier and Brian, who brought tea.

“I've examined Abigail and I find you've taken great pains with her.” Mr. Graham pointed out, breaking the silence that had settled.

The girl, understanding that he was talking about her, was tamping herself, trying to make herself even smaller than she already was. She was not afraid of her guardian, but she knew that he could sometimes have terrible anger and very harsh words against her.

“She's not bright, she has no talents, yet in a short time she's improved.” Thornfield's owner said between puffs of smoke.  
“Thank you, Mr. Graham.” The professor murmured audibly.  
“You've been resident here three months?”  
“Yes, sir.”  
“And from whence do you hail? What's your tale of woe?” The man asked, who had lifted his eyes from the drawings, to put them about Hannibal.

The young man, who in turn looked at the aristocrat, took advantage of the moment to reassess his employer. The light from the chimney fire allowed him to better see this man so cold and sarcastic. Mrs. Du Maurier had indicated in a previous conversation that William Edward Graham was a wealthy landowner, aged thirty-nine. But his appearance would have tended to indicate a younger age. He had soft and delicate features, like those of the young ephebes who adorned the paintings of the manor. He possessed very beautiful eyes, hemmed with long black lashes and well-defined thick eyebrows, but which Hannibal could not describe their color, as they oscillated between different shades of blue. They seemed at once azure and cerulean, ultramarine and gray, or else, cobalt and green of water. The young professor could not help, as an esthete and art lover, to think that these sapphire eyes would be beautiful to look at in the light of day.

Hannibal also remembered other information that the housekeeper had given him. Mr. Graham traveled often and sometimes outside of England. He was known for some escapades, such as being a lover of beautiful women, but also, gorgeous men according to several rumors, which was not to the taste of the church. However, being rich, but above all, being single, made him a coveted man among aristocratic families who wanted to marry their daughters.

“Pardon?” The professor asked, following the question that had been asked a few seconds before.  
“All governesses have a tale of woe, even when that person is a man. What's yours?”  
“I was brought up by my aunt, Mrs. Lecter, also called Lady Murasaki, in a house as finer than this. I then attended Lowood School, where I received as good an education as I could hope for. I have no tale of woe, sir.”  
“Where are your parents?”  
“Dead.”  
“Do you remember them?”  
“Yes.”  
“And why are you not with Mrs. Lecter called Lady Murasaki now?”

Mrs. Du Maurier slowly approached her master, before handing him a crystal glass which was filled with a strong alcohol, but of which the man appreciated the character. She then approached Hannibal to give him a cup of tea, which he accepted. Mr. Graham and the young professor each took a sip of their drink, before resuming the verbal battle they were waging. One questioned relentlessly, searching for the flaws and weaknesses of his interlocutor who had made him fall from his horse a few hours earlier. While the other spoke mechanically, omitting certain details in his answers, like the existence of his little sister. He knew how to keep calm and his polite smile on his face, which seemed to particularly annoy the owner of Thornfield.

“She cast me off, sir.”  
“Why?”  
“Because I was burdensome and she disliked me.”

Mr. Graham smiled wickedly, putting his glass on a small table near him, before crossing his fingers between them. He gave a nervous little laugh before answering the young man.

“No tale of woe?” He asked again sarcastically.

For the brown-haired man, it was obvious that his interlocutor had answered the truth, but that in addition to being abandoned by his aunt, he probably hid a darker past. Few people knew that William Edward Graham had the gift of empathy, which allowed him to easily read the people who faced him, and therefore, how to act and speak in their presence, to better handle them or reach his purposes. And for the rich single man, this strange young teacher with a certain charm, had piqued his curiosity, with that kind of false smile that he showed on his face, as his housekeeper knew how to do so often.

“I daily thank providence for sending us Mr. Lecter. He's an invaluable...” Bedelia began to say, before being cut by her master.  
“Don't trouble yourself to give him a character. I'll judge for myself. I have him to thank for this sprain.”  
“Sir?” The housekeeper asked, who did not understand Mr. Graham's last sentence.

Hannibal glanced at Mrs. Du Maurier, who was staring at him with fright, wondering what the young man had done as a crime.

“You bewitched my horse.”  
“I did not.”  
“Were you waiting for your people on that lane?”  
“I have no people, sir.”  
“I mean for the imps and elves and little green men. And in view of your accent, I dare to imagine what spells and curses you can also cast.”

The young man sighed at so much rudeness, took a sip of tea, before replying to his employer.

“The sad truth is, they are all gone. Your land is neither wild nor savage enough for them.”

Bedelia looked at the two men who clashed verbally, not daring to whisper a word. Mr. Graham, facing to so much respondent, smiled again mockingly, before turning his attention to the drawings he had found in Hannibal's case, after ordering Jimmy to report them to him.

“Jimmy brought me these. Are they yours?”  
“Yes, sir.”  
“Where did you get your copies?”  
“From what I saw in books and out of my head.”  
“That strange head I now see on your shoulders?”  
“Yes, sir.” The professor replied, paying no more attention to the new insult received.

Mr. Graham took one of the drawings between his fingers, examined it, before showing it to his creator.

“Who's this?”

The drawing represented a beautiful young blonde woman whose golden curls cascaded down her bust. She seemed to wear a white muslin dress, which contrasted with the background, which was covered with black ink. Above her head, a star shone and surrounded the woman with a luminous halo. Finally, at her bare feet, a sprig of lily of the valley, symbol of love and good luck, had been painted.

“The evening star.” Hannibal explained.

He did not specify where his source of inspiration came from, a blond girl he had known long ago, and whom he considered as his guardian angel.

“Were you happy when you painted these?”  
“Yes. To paint is one of the keenest pleasures I have ever known.”  
“Then your pleasures have been few. Are you satisfied with them?”  
“Far from it. I imagine things I'm powerless to execute.”  
“You've secured the shadow of your thoughts. Yet the drawings are, for a schoolboy, peculiar.”

Hannibal did not smile anymore. He was looking at the handsome, but terribly awful man who was facing him and who was watching him just as coldly as he did now. The master of Thornfield put the drawing with the others, before handing them to the young man. This one handed his cup of tea to Bedelia so that he could get up and get his things back.

“Good night.” Mr. Graham said, indicating that the conversation was over and that the teacher was allowed to leave.

After catching his works, Hannibal held out a hand towards the dark-haired girl, who had remained, for once, motionless and mute, during the whole conversation.

“Come, Abigail.”

The child stood up and followed her teacher, who was taking her outside the aristocrat's room. Frederique closed the march without making any noise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation of Abigail dialogues:
> 
> “Sir, here is Mr. Lecter.”


	9. Chapter 9

“Most merciful Father, we give Thee humble thanks for this, Thy special bounty. Amen.” Mrs. Du Maurier recited, before she and her companions began eating their lunch.

Since the return of the master of Thornfield, this one had been very little seen. The man preferred to stay shut in his room, to allow his leg to heal faster, limiting his activities. He also took the opportunity to rest, after his many trips he had made during the last months. Thus, since almost a week, servants could be seen coming and going regularly in the hallway leading to the noble's room, bringing several times by day meal trays or various items that Mr. Graham had requested, in order to deceive his growing boredom.

“Amen.” Hannibal and Abigail finally answered.

Everyone savored their hot pottage, while remaining silent. Only the sound of spoons against the hollow plates could be heard. The young professor was immersed in his thoughts, thinking about the next lessons he was going to teach to the child who was facing him. As M. Graham had pointed out, the girl had made great progress, despite her lack of patience and interest in learning her lessons. Hannibal had to be cunning and find a lot of tricks to keep his student's attention. He was sometimes surprised to compare himself, not without amusement, to Mathieu-Jacques de Vermond, the teacher who had educated the young Marie-Antoinette, before she became the Dauphine of France. Like the man, he had taken the theater as a teaching tool, to show Abigail how to better read and speak English, letting the child declaim famous tirades that William Shakespeare and other authors had written a few centuries ago. Assisted by the young Frédérique, the three companions had taken a liking to sometimes interpret scenes in front of Bedelia, which allowed to animate some long evenings at the corner of a fire.

Suddenly, a music rose in the mansion. Hannibal began to smile very furtively, when he recognized the air played on the piano. Mozart and his famous _Rondo alla Turca_ , or more commonly known as the _Turkish March_ , a piece that the teacher enjoyed playing from time to time. At the same moment, the little girl who had immediately raised her head, turned it towards where the melody might come from, as if attracted by it. She tried to get up quickly, but the Thornfield's housekeeper put a hand on the child's arm to stop her.

“Sit nicely, please.” She ordered against Abigail, who sat down again, still keeping her smile on her face

The air played on the piano continued for a few more seconds before stopping abruptly. A door slammed violently, before footsteps were heard.

“Winston!” Mr. Graham yelled, calling his dog, for the animal to follow him.

Then a second door slammed, indicating that the man seemed in a bad mood. Faced with so much noise, the meal had become even quieter, as not to attract the wrath of the master of the place. Mrs. Du Maurier, accustomed to Mr. Graham's changing moods, continued to eat while observing Hannibal's reaction to this storm. The young teacher, meanwhile, continued to taste his pottage, remaining marble against all this. Nevertheless, he could not help sometimes turning his eyes to the right, a sign of his exasperation, in the face of so much rudeness.

“Winston, come here!” Mr. Graham shouted again, in a voice that seemed both close and distant.

The dog barked, as if to reply to its owner. Then a detonation was heard. Someone had shot with a gun. Mrs. Du Maurier raised her head, stopping her lunch. She looked pinched, expressing her scorn and disgust at what she had just heard. God that she hated guns. And now her master had decided, probably on a whim and by boredom, to shoot for the simple leisure. Hannibal, who had also stopped eating, lifted his head to look at the Thornfield's housekeeper, questioning her with his look about what was happening. As for the girl, she had not touched her meal since her attempt to escape.

“Go on, further down! By the river!” Mr. Graham shouted, against someone, probably one of the servants of the mansion.

The man, by his words, had thus left his room, to go in the garden or on one of the large balconies of the property.

“He's very abrupt and changeful.” Hannibal murmured, still staring at Bedelia, before taking a bite out of his lunch.

Mrs. Du Maurier was surprised by the words she had heard, but did not dare to contradict the young man, who had pointed out certain defects of the noble.

“What manner of man is he?” The teacher asked.  
“He's a good master. He's fine company, too, when he...” The beautiful blond woman tried to tell, before being cut by a new shot of gun.

With so much noise, the child, whose curiosity was again stung, took the opportunity to get up and run to the window to try to observe everything.

“...except when he's in an ill humor.” Bedelia muttered, finishing her sentence, before turning also to the window.

“Abigail.” Hannibal called, telling to his student that her behavior was not right.

Sticking her little face to the window, to better observe the scene, the child did not pay attention to the call of her teacher. She was busy and passionate about what she could see, the reason why this boring and quiet lunch was disturbed. Hannibal rose to his turn to bring his pupil to the table, but interrupted his gesture when another shot was heard. Finally, the man leaned over like the little girl, to observe what was happening.

Mr. Graham was in the garden, rifle in hand, aiming and firing at a target in the distance. Winston run happily beside him, enjoying the fresh air to stretch its paws. Around the nobleman, a cloud of smoke was dissipating, after each time the weapon had expelled its projectile. Hannibal observed that a beautiful black cane was also near the man, indicating that his leg injury was still present, which prevented him from walking normally. The Thornfield’s owner leaned over to pick up various objects in the grass, which were nothing but the necessities of reloading his rifle.

The shots succeeded one another for long minutes under the eyes of the two curious. Mrs. Du Maurier remained alone at the table, trying to finish her pottage, which had greatly cooled. It seemed now bland, not very tasty and leaving her an unpleasant taste in the mouth.

*******

The days followed one another gently, rocked by a mild and pleasant weather. Most of Hannibal's afternoons took place in the garden, where the man enjoyed the nice temperatures to do some educational or sports outings with Abigail, accompanied by Frédérique.

In one of them, the teacher showed the girl how to play badminton. The steering shuttlecock often bounced on the rackets, always accompanied by laughter from the child. Frederique, who had accompanied them as always, had settled on a chair, silently embroidering. She was having fun counting the number of times her little protégé managed to send back the shuttlecock. And every time she got there, the red-haired woman spread a broad smile on her lips, letting pride color her cheekbones in the face of the child's achievement.

A little further, Mr. Graham, assisted by Brian and Jimmy, was trying to uproot the stump of a dead tree. Several times, Hannibal felt on him, the heavy and insistent gaze that the man carried on him. And several times, he met this sapphire gaze of the master of the place.

*******

William Edward Graham did not like playing piano, or any other musical instrument. He could read the scores, interpret them, but he did not like the way he played, preferring to be a spectator rather than a performer. But all this did not prevent him from sometimes making his fingers dance on the white and black keys of the piano, which was installed in the large salon. And on that night when boredom dominated, the man carelessly played a melody, not caring about the rhythm or sound that was produced.

“Keep it.” The Thornfield's master grumbled to Bedelia, who brought to him a steaming cup of tea.

Mrs. Du Maurier looked at the hot drink for a moment, before turning back. Hannibal, who was sitting in a leather chair near the fireplace, was silently reading a book. He did not look up to the scene, getting used to Mr. Graham's mood swings when he was confronted with them. This one, who had finally left the piano, walked towards a buffet, which contained a tray where a bottle of whiskey and several glasses rested. He grabs one of them, before pouring himself some of the precious amber liquid, which would soon burn his throat pleasantly.

“ _Oh ma boîte ! Ma boîte !_ ”

Abigail had just arrived in the salon, followed closely by Frederique. The child had rushed towards a large package, which was on one of the small coffee tables in the room, chuckling with happiness at the fact that her parcel had arrived. In fact, Mr. Graham had promised her, shortly after his return to Thornfield, that in the course of the month, the girl would soon have a new dress. The little girl quickly opened the box, lifting the multiple papers of silk that wrapped the precious garment, before reaching it.

“Take it away and disembowel it. The noble grumbled again as he took a seat in one of the armchairs facing Hannibal's.

Abigail took out the dress, helped by Frédérique and Bedelia, who made sure that an accident did not happen, following the infatuation of the child.

“ _Oh, ciel ! Que c’est beau !_ ” Could not help saying the little girl, touching and stroking the fabric of the garment.  
“Beautiful.” Mrs. Du Maurier replied, admiring the gift the young pupil of Hannibal had received.

Mr. Graham took a sip of his glass and looked at the professor, who was facing him and still reading. Seeing no reaction from him, the man called Hannibal, to try to start a conversation. Both had not spoken to each other since that famous evening, when the nobleman had come back wounded.

“Mr. Lecter.”

The young professor memorized the sentence and the page where he stopped reading before closing the book. He put it on his knees, before raising his head and placing his eyes on his interlocutor, who continued to fix it.

“I'm not fond of children. Nor do I particularly enjoy simple-minded old ladies.” Mr. Graham began to say, addressing his unflattering remarks to Abigail and Bedelia.

The blonde woman, who had heard everything, stiffened suddenly, letting her face reflect the sadness she felt at the words spoken.

“But you might suit me, if you would.” Mr. Graham added again, this time addressing to Hannibal.

A mischievous smile appeared on the lips of the wealthy owner, while his gaze became increasingly heavy and piercing. The man seemed to be trying to understand this strange being who was in front of him and who often remained silent, insensitive and of marble. How he would have liked to open this head, or rather the skull that faced him, to revel in its content and that looked so mysterious, but also very fascinating.

“How, sir?” Hannibal asked.  
“By distracting me from the mire of my thoughts.”

The young professor bent his head slightly, trying to understand if the master of the house was making fun of him, when Abigail ran in his direction. Holding tightly between her small arms the beautiful dress she received, she knelt in front of Mr. Graham's armchair to express his gratitude.

“ _Oh, monsieur ! Je vous remercie mille fois de votre bonté !_ ” She dared to say, smiling and looking at the nobleman, who had begun to look at her.

The man did not say a word, remaining silent. The atmosphere quickly became heavy. The child, not knowing if she was responsible for the situation, said in a hesitant voice a few words in English.

“That is how Maman used to say.”

At these words, Mr. Graham began to smile, but this time, in a naughty way. Then, in a sarcastic voice, he replied to the little girl, letting his syllables and consonants roll on his tongue to support his words.

“Precisely. And that's how she charmed my English gold out of my English pocket.”

Abigail lowered her head, not knowing what to say in response to this answer. Mrs. Du Maurier began to walk towards the child, before extending a hand to her.

“Let's go and try it on, shall we?” She whispered, taking the girl out of the living room, followed closely by Frédérique.

The owner of Thornfield took advantage of the ladies' departure, to swallow another sip of whiskey and put his eyes on Hannibal. This one had not looked away, still staring at the noble. A new verbal battle took place between the two.

“Your gaze is very direct, M. Lecter. Do you think me handsome?”  
“No, sir.”  
“What fault do you find with me? I have all my limbs and features.”  
“I beg your pardon, sir. I ought to have replied that beauty is of little consequence.” The professor replied, leaving a smile to his lips.

William Edward Graham enjoyed the game between him and this young man. He liked to tease, take control and exercise his power over others, who dared not protest because of his status. He who came so easily to decipher the others, found himself in face a person whose thoughts he could not understand. And he loved it. Feeling some resistance to what he could say, it was almost pleasurable.

“You're blushing, M. Lecter. And though you're not more handsome any more than I am, I must say it becomes you.”

Hannibal made no reply to the rude words he had just heard, contenting himself by fixing his interlocutor. For him, it was true that beauty was of little consequence and was essentially a matter of taste. The master of Thornfield had a handsome face, with harmonious and delicate features, worthy of an antique or Renaissance statue. Although a few wrinkles were present on his forehead and near his blue eyes, the man was nonetheless seductive. But, for Hannibal, was he handsome? He could not answer. The whimsical and gruff character of Mr. Graham prevented him from judging properly.

“Your eyes, in particular, are fascinating, they seem to change of color depending on your mood.” The noble added, seeking an answer.

Again, Hannibal only replies with silence.

“Come, speak to me. Fact is, M. Lecter, I'd like to draw you out.” The man added again, letting out a laugh.

Faced with this monologue that dragged far too much for his taste, the owner of Thornfield decided to enjoy it for more fun. If his interlocutor refused to fight, then he would continue to tease or talk to him. At least, for him, this activity, unlike the piano, was always much more enjoyable to practice.

“You have rather the look of another world about you. I don't wish to treat you as inferior, because…”  
“Yet you'd command me to speak?” Hannibal replied, after interrupting the noble.  
“Are you very hurt by my tone of command?” Mr. Graham asked, surprised by the answer he got.  
“There are few masters who'd trouble to enquire whether their paid subordinates were hurt by their commands.”  
“Paid subordinate? I'd forgotten the salary. Well, on that mercenary ground, will you consent to speak as my equal without thinking that the request arises from insolence?”  
“I'd never mistake informality for insolence, sir. One, I rather like. The other, nothing freeborn should ever submit to.”  
“Humbug.”  
“Even for a salary.”  
“Most free-born things would submit to anything for a salary. But I mentally shake hands with you for your answer. Not three in 3,000 persons would have answered me as you've just done.”  
“Then you've not spent much time in our company, sir. I'm the same plain kind of being as all the rest, with my common tale of woe.”

For a few seconds the owner of Thornfield was speechless in front of so many responses and frankness. Never anyone had spoken to him that way. The other nobles, the priests, and those of a rank or an inferior fortune, had always forgiven him for his harsh and pungent words, his escapades, and other unglamorous actions he might have committed in the past. Yet in front of him, a young man with high cheekbones spoke to him, as freely as he was allowed. And William Edward Graham loved it.

“I envy you.” The rich master murmured.  
“How?”  
“Your openness, your unpolluted mind. When I was about your age, fate dealt me a blow. And since happiness is denied me, I've a right to get pleasure in its stead. And I will get it, cost what it may.”  
“Then you'll degenerate still more.”  
“But, M. Lecter, if the pleasure I was seeking was sweet and fresh, if it was an inspiration, if it wore the outfit of an angel of light, what then?”

Hannibal tilted his head again, trying to understand the last words Mr. Graham had spoken. He could not tell if the question asked was sincere or any other teasing disguised in a more serious tone. Unable to speak, the professor preferred to put an end to the conversation, capitulating and expressing his incomprehension.

“To speak truth, sir, I don't understand you at all. I fear the conversation has got out of my depth.”

The young man got up from the chair, taking care to carry with him the book that had been lying on his knees since the beginning of the duel. He advanced to the armchair of the master of Thornfield, wishing him a good night's nod, but he was stopped, when a hand grabbed his arm to keep him there.

“You're afraid of me.” M. Graham said against him.  
“I'm not afraid. I've simply no wish to talk nonsense.”

After a few seconds of hesitation, the nobleman freed Hannibal's arm, before slumping into his leather chair, while continuing to look at him. He could not let go of this mysterious and strange being, with whom he enjoyed chatting.

“Do you never laugh, M. Lecter? Only rarely, perhaps. But you're not naturally austere, any more than I'm naturally vicious. I can see in you the glance of a curious sort of bird through the close-set bars of a cage, a vivid, restless captive. Were it but free, it would soar, cloud-high.”

Finally, Mr. Graham closed his eyes for a moment, trying to imagine the scene in his head. Then, he swallowed the rest of his glass of whiskey, letting Hannibal to leave from the living room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation of Abigail dialogues:
> 
> “Oh my box! My box !”
> 
> “Oh, heaven! How beautiful !”
> 
> “Oh, sir! I thank you a thousand times for your kindness!”


	10. Chapter 10

“Beverly, have you seen Mr. Chilton?”  
“Yes, ma'am.”  
“The master's in no mood for any more mistakes.”

As he was walking towards his room, after taking leave of Mr. Graham, Hannibal had caught a conversation between Bedelia and Beverly Katz, whose subject matter seemed to be about one of the estate's residents, Frederick Chilton.

The young professor had already seen and met this man, shortly after his arrival at Thornfield. This person was one of Thornfield's servants, and whose reputation had soon reached Hannibal's ears, and his reputation soon reached Hannibal's ears, namely, a certain weakness for alcoholic beverages. But the man often remained alone, apart from the others, pretending only to accomplish the tasks and other things assigned to him, which had not allowed Hannibal to get to know him better.

Not trying to understand the meaning of this discussion and naively thinking that William Graham had ordered Mr. Chilton to perform a mission, the failure of which was not allowed, Abigail's teacher continued to go to his room before reaching it and engulfing into it.

*******

One of the few things Hannibal Lecter loved in this mansion where he resided, was the large collection of works of art that he housed. This had been started by ancestors of Mr. Graham and the noble seemed to continue this tradition, sometimes reporting or sending, during his various travels, some paintings and other works. The majority of the paintings that adorned the walls of the building, were often copies of famous canvases, old or newer, which allowed the visitor to admire scenes from ancient mythology, the Bible, or even events historical, like coronations of monarchs. But some pieces of the estate were more reserved for the exhibition of portraits that represented the various members of the Graham family.

Thus, in one of the small salons, housed one of the few representations of the current master of the house. The man had been painted in his early years, probably in his adolescence. And without knowing it, Hannibal often had, long before the return of William Graham, admired this painting, after finding it during one of his explorations. He had wondered who this beautiful person might be, with a soft, calm expression and an angel-like appearance, with that white skin and long brown curls. Since the teacher had understood who was the subject of the painting, after having met his model in the flesh, the canvas had become a sort of object of curiosity. Some nights, from his room, Hannibal liked to land in this small room that now had its place in his memory palace, admiring the painting again, while wondering how such a handsome young man had become such a rude and rough adult? It was indeed on this question, following his new conversation with Mr. Graham, that the professor fell asleep that night.

*******

It was around three o'clock in the morning, when Hannibal awoke to a strange sound he seemed to have heard: a woman's laughter. Although he was still numb with sleep, the man could not help but quickly find that what he had heard, was not a dream, when the noise had begun again. Mischa's little voice in his head told him something was wrong.

Indeed, his body was covered with a thin layer of sweat, and although it sometimes happened to him when he had a bad dream, often about the death of Mischa, this time, it all seemed to be due to the fact that he felt nauseated. But he could feel he was not feverish or sick. The cause of this condition was due to something else. And it was finally a smell that put him on the track: that of smoke. His powerful sense of smell allowed the professor to feel that something was burning, in addition to the pungent smell that his sticky body gave off.

The man got up slowly, before stepping on the thick carpet of his bare feet. Not finding the source of light that would have allowed him to see where this scent could come from, Hannibal decided to light a candle to see more clearly. He also put on, very quickly, pants, to cover his sex and buttocks, which were hidden only by his ample nightgown. In any case, he did not want to shock people, whom he might eventually meet in the corridors of the manor. Then, grabbing the candle he put in a sconce, to keep a light source near him, the professor ventured outside his room.

“Who's there?” He asked to the darkness facing him, trying to see where the mysterious laugh that had awakened him a little earlier might have come from.

But no one answered him, outside the walls and the floor of the corridor which cracked sometimes, due to the antiquity of the residence. Hannibal then decided to go through the passage that served his bedroom, letting himself be guided by the smell of smoke, which was becoming stronger as he walked. After a few minutes of searching, he reached the Thornfield master's room, understanding that the smell was coming from that place. Without hesitating a single second on what he had to do, Hannibal opened the door, ignoring the consequences that could follow from this action, such as the possibility of getting Mr. Graham's anger.

Entering the room, the smoke instantly jumped on his face, causing a coughing fit in the young man, after inhaling a puff. His eyes stung and burned as he tried to understand the situation and to find his bearings in this bedroom, which he had visited only once. The room was indeed filled with thick smoke, which could make it difficult to move. But Hannibal advanced towards the blaze, noting that the fire was greedily licking one of the wooden columns of the bed, while burning some of the curtains of the same furniture.

Arriving at his height, the young professor saw Mr. Graham, who was slightly covered by the sheets of the bed and seemed to sleep soundly. For a short while, the time seemed to have stopped, leaving Hannibal to admire the spectacle that presented itself to him. The nobleman looked peaceful, giving him an even more youthful appearance than usual. This impression was due to the fact that his brown curls, usually well capped back, currently framed his face, like a halo. This vision seemed to come from a canvas worthy of a great painter, who would have liked to represent a deity, an ephebe, or simply, an angel. And Hannibal, with his sconce still in his hand to illuminate his path, found himself feeling a bit like Psyche, when she tried to observe and admire her lover Eros.

“Wake up, sir! Wake up! Sir! Wake up!” The professor shouted, between several coughing fits, while shaking one of William Graham's shoulders, after placing his candle on one of the bedside tables.

The man stirred slightly, but did not wake up, probably numb with the smoke he had breathed during his sleep. Hannibal continued to shake the nobleman for a few seconds, while watching the fire continue a few meters away, wanting to prevent a tragedy from happening, due to his inattention. When Mr. Graham began to emerge from his torpor, painfully opening his eyes, the professor left, to take the pot of hot water for the facelift, before spraying it on the furniture on fire. Then, with a quick movement, he chained with the jar that contained the water for the pot, repeating the same gesture to try to extinguish the fire in progress.

William, who had woken up, saw with horror what was going on, before jumping out of bed, to help Hannibal. The man snatched the curtain on fire, tossing it to the ground, so as to stifle the few flames that still escaped.

“The quilt! Give it here!” He ordered to the young professor, to try to extinguish the fire that was still ravaging the wooden column of the bed.

This one grabbed the appointed linen and with the help of the rich landlord, the two men asphyxiated the fire which continued to flourish. For several seconds, they took care of the embers and sparks that resisted, to be sure that the fire could not restart inadvertently. Then William went to one of the windows of his room, to open it, to evacuate more quickly the smoke that remained particularly present in the room. This action had the effect of letting the rays of the moon enter, which illuminated the room somewhat, in addition to the candle which continued to melt gently in the sconce. The nobleman calmed his coughing by taking a breath of fresh air, before turning his gaze on Hannibal, who was also trying to calm his coughing fit. Sensing Mr. Graham's piercing eyes on him, the professor looked at him.

For long seconds, the two men stared at each other, as if they realized little by little what had happened. Finally, William decided to walk in the direction of his pants, which was placed on a leather armchair, to put on, being dressed for the moment only with a nightgown similar to the one that Hannibal also wore. Always looking at the rich owner, the teacher could see, for a moment, a part of his intimacy, as well as the curve of his buttocks. Quickly turning his gaze, he took also the opportunity to turn his back on his employer, only wishing to let him more privacy while he dressed. The man, who had noticed everything, began to smile, even letting a little laugh escape from his lips.

“Come on, Mr. Lecter, you and I are normally two perfectly constituted men. You should not be bothered by the parts of my body you could see.”  
“I'm in no way embarrassed, sir. I'd rather just leave you a little privacy while you get dressed.”  
“How charming of you. However, let me doubt this truth. Is it your modesty that makes you blush? Or is it due to what is at the level of my crotch, which puts you in the embarrass?” Graham added in a mocking voice.  
“Neither, sir. I studied medicine, alongside a former surgeon, for a few years. So, I have a perfect knowledge of the anatomy of men and women. I do not feel the slightest desire for a naked body. The sight of your body, and of your intimacy, do me no effects, if not awakened memories of that past time.”  
“Yet, you sometimes seem to look at me as if I were one of the most fascinating ancient statues you have ever seen. You know, the ones that show the beauty of the male body. But, as you may have noticed, contrary to these men made of white marble, there is a big difference in some place between them and me.”

After whispering in a surprisingly suave and almost sensual voice this last sentence, while continuing to put on his pants, the nobleman started to wear a pair of boots, before speaking again.

“May I know how you knew about the fire, Mr. Lecter?”  
“A noise aroused me from my sleep.”  
“What noise?”  
“There was someone at my door.”

The owner of Thornfield stared at Hannibal for a moment, who always showed him only his back, before catching a thick black jacket, which was also hanging on another armchair in the room. He walked towards the professor, to put on the shoulders of this one, the warm clothing, so that the young man did not take cold.

“Stay here. Don't make a sound.” William Graham whispered close to one of Hannibal's ears, which jumped very slightly, surprised by the gesture and the proximity of the master of the house.

Then he went to get the professor's sconce, carrying it with him as he left the room, disappearing into the darkness.

******

Hannibal had settled into one of the leather armchairs of the room, wrapping himself in the jacket, which was slightly too small for him, to keep warm, despite his bare feet and the open window. For many minutes, he had tried to determine the possible causes that might have led to the start of this fire. But no answers seemed logical. Then, without really realizing it, the professor had begun to smell the woody scent* that the jacket wore. The scent that came from it included notes of leather and citrus, which was reminiscent of Hannibal's childhood memories of the days when his parents and Mischa were still alive. And as if cradled by the scent, the young man began to doze, before falling asleep.

*******

Several hours had passed since Mr. Graham left. It was around five o'clock when Hannibal woke up after hearing the crack of the floorboard. He opened his eyes to see that the master of Thornfield was watching him with mischief, amused by the scene he could see. The professor got up, while the nobleman spoke, adopting a more serious air.

“Say nothing about this. You're no talking fool. I'll account for this state of affairs. Say nothing.”  
“Yes, sir.” Hannibal answered, who was taking off the jacket, to return it to his owner.

To the surprise of the young man, William approached him like a cat ready to jump on his prey. An expression like desire, mingled again with that of amusement, appeared on his face. Arriving near him, the nobleman extended a hand towards his jacket, and finally put it on Hannibal's, seeing how hot there were, and surprisingly soft, unlike his colder and rougher ones.

“Is that how you would leave me? Hannibal, fire is a horrible death. You've saved my life. How can I thank you?” He whispered in a deep, soft voice.  
“You do not have to thank me. I have only done my duty, sir.” Abigail's teacher replied, who kept an expressionless gaze, and continued to fix the gray blue eyes which were watching him.  
“Don't walk past me as if we were strangers.”  
“But what am I to do then?”

William finally grabbed his jacket, casually throwing it at the leather armchair next to him, before handing his hand back to Hannibal, waiting for this one to lay his own. But nothing happened. As if to fill this silence, the man spoke again, adopting again this voice full of sensuality, while bringing his face closer to the one of his interlocutor.

“I've a pleasure in owing you my life.”  
“I insist, there is no debt.” The professor replied, who always maintained a certain indifference, facing the rapprochement of the noble.

The man started an initiative again, this time placing one of his hands on Hannibal's chest. This gesture caused the professor to shudder, not because of this sudden proximity, but because of the coldness of William's hand. This effect, although natural, amused and delighted the rich owner, who smiled more beautiful, while letting his fingers caress and browse the fabric of Hannibal's nightgown.

“Hannibal, I knew you would do me good in some way. I saw it in your eyes when I first beheld you. Their expression did not strike my very inmost being so for nothing. People talk of natural sympathies. You...”

The professor had just grabbed William's wandering hand, which had started to descend and reach his lower abdomen. Without exercising a force that could hurt the man, Hannibal had stopped the gesture that had been undertaken, without repelling his interlocutor. The two men were always very close to each other. Only a few inches separated their faces. And neither of them looked away, watching each other with a certain fascination.

William Edward Graham liked women as much as men. He did not hide it, was not ashamed of this aspect, like loving to dominate others. And compared to what was happening right now, he was taking great pleasure in teasing the young professor, trying to cross the line to see how far he could go with him. He had thought, for a few seconds, to kiss those lips that faced him. He had wondered what sensations he could have when his owns, plumper, would stick to that mouth, to the sulky pout, whose upper lip was so particular and fleshy. But the man had changed his mind, preferring to continue drowning in those brown eyes, with burgundy gleams, while yielding to another impulse: trying to feel, touch and caress the intimacy of Hannibal. He knew that his chances were meager or nonexistent, but the desire to know how the teacher would react to this gesture had taken over. And the way the professor had stopped him, frankly, but very sweet, had pleasantly surprised Mr. Graham. The more he spent time with this young man, the more his desire to know everything about it, grew. He hoped that one day, he could devour it as he pleased, while enjoying this rare and delicate dish.

“Good night then, sir.” The professor murmured against his employer, finally trying to put an end to this strange conversation.  
“You will leave me, then?”  
“I am cold.”  
“Go.”

*******

A few minutes after leaving William Graham's room, Hannibal found himself in his own. He had just closed his door, when he let his back rest on it, feeling that his legs were trembling slightly as a result of what had happened. He was replaying the scene in his head, trying to understand how all of this had happened. And just like the fire, none of the sensible answers that came to him seemed logical. All he could see were those incredible sapphire eyes with fifty shades of blue, but also, that thin, fleshy, incredibly pink mouth. Mr. Graham's lips looked incredibly soft and just like this one, Hannibal tried to imagine the taste they could have. Slowly, one of his hands approached his pants, before letting it slip inside. Brushing his sex which wasn't hard, the contact had the effect of sending a kind of electric shock, which immediately awoke a sense of shame and guilt in him. How could he, who knew so well how to keep calm in the most critical situations, give in to the temptation of the flesh? And more particularly, with a man who loved to torture him and began to haunt his mind, as well as his memory palace? Hannibal sighed, finally pulling his hand away and putting it on his forehead.

"Mischa, where are you, you and your wise words that prevent me from yielding to my lowest and primary instincts, when I need you? The young professor thought, his gaze now lost in the wave.

Before him, the light of dawn began to seep into his room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The perfume worn by William Edward Graham is Royal English Leather by Creed. The fragrance notes are mandarin, bergamot, ambergris, leather and sandalwood. It was a perfume that was commissioned by the English king George III in 1781, before becoming, many years later, one of the favorites of Emperor Napoleon III.


	11. Chapter 11

It was around ten o'clock in the morning, when Hannibal went to the great dining-room where Mrs. Du Maurier was. He walked over to her, wearing his mask on his face, which allowed him to hide the thoughts and doubts that had gripped him since his strange connection with the Thornfield's owner.

“Has Mr. Graham not sent for us today?” The young man asked.  
“Why, he's gone away. Were you not aware? He left after breakfast.” Bedelia answered, bending some linen.

Hannibal looked at her, without showing his astonishment. This departure, which seemed to have been decided at the last moment by the nobleman, shocked and disturbed the professor, who was now asking himself more questions. Why William was gone? Was it his fault? For having fled or rejected this rapprochement, which always seemed illogical and dangerous at his eyes? Or the rich Englishman regretted his actions and preferred to leave?

“He's gone to the Leas. It's Mr. Gideon's place. I believe Alana Bloom is there. She's a great favorite of his.”

This revelation, which answered some questions, somewhat changed Bedelia's behavior. She smiled, her cheeks flushed slightly and her voice grew a little sharper. It seemed evident that this news made her happy and that she was taking pleasure in talking about it.

“I saw her two years ago when Mr. Graham gave a party here. She's a most elegant girl. They sang a duet together. They made a lovely harmony. I was quite surprised he didn't make a proposal, but she has no fortune. In every other way they'd make a splendid match. Perhaps it's his intention now.”

Catching the stack of linen that she had finished folding, Mrs. Du Maurier went to Hannibal, before resuming her soliloquy. The young teacher noticed that the housekeeper was trying to put on her own mask, to regain control of her emotions.

“He's far more likely to have gone off to Europe. He often goes without so much as a fare-you-well, and I don't see him for a year.”

She left the room, to go and tidy the clean sheets she had with her, leaving Hannibal, alone in front of his thoughts and emotions that seethed in him.

*******

“England is a great power, Abigail. British ships set sail from here to the outer limits of our empire, navigating the five oceans and four corners of our world. From Canada, here, all the way to the south of Africa and the Cape of Good Hope. Across the Indian Ocean, to Australia and New Zealand, and on to Burma, China, India and Malaya.”

It had been several days since Mr. Graham left Thornfield. The manor was calm again, silent, sporting the same atmosphere that Hannibal had known when he arrived. And although its inhabitants seemed more relaxed, due to the absence of the master of house and his bad mood, this was not the case of the young teacher. He continued to rehearse that famous night when he had saved the rich landlord, but also the few conversations that the two men had had. For the first time, he could not understand what was going on in his head. Did he feel affection for the rich Englishman? Probably. But, was it more friendship? Admiration? Or a beginning of feeling in love? He did not know.

Hannibal was divided between the education he had begun to receive from his late father, and the education he had built following the death of Mischa. His precocious intelligence and the freedom of thought that had been offered him had allowed the young boy to read, learn, and make his own conception of the world. Religion, which his mother had tried to inculcate in him, had come up against this vision, so singular and logical, that the child had built himself. But Mischa's death had put everything back in question. All that he had learned later, Hannibal had done wondering if this would be a sin, or considering whether this new knowledge would damn his soul. The voice of his little sister had guided him in his choices and continued to do so. But if the teacher had continued to live, regardless of this good conscience, no doubt that his life and his current convictions would have been different. Certainly, he considered, deep inside him, that the gender of a person and his sexuality, all this was secondary, despite the good manners of society. And because of this, Hannibal would have lived more serenely the current situation. He would have savored more of this strange relationship he was starting to have with his employer, even interacting more frankly and sincerely with his wishes and those of William. But life was not like that, and the young man wanted only one thing: to reach the region of bliss, as Mischa had wished, but by making sure that one day he could join his little sister, no matter where she was now.

“ _Qu’avez-vous, monsieur ?_ ” Abigail asked, noting that her teacher was holding a clenched hand on the edge of the desk.

Hannibal and his pupil were in the library for the geography lesson of the day. Slightly leaning against the furniture that supported the world maps and globes that were used, the man was putting a lot of pressure on it. His hand was shaking slightly, while his fingers were a mixture of red and white, showing how much he seemed to be disturbing, despite his impassive face and calm voice, which he continued to adopt.

“Nothing.” He answered the little girl, smiling at her, trying to reassure her.

As he would have liked to believe in this answer. And yet, William Edward Graham continued to haunt him and he still could not find out why. How could this rude man, rough and hateful, crack the thick and supposedly unbreakable varnish of his mask? The various trains of his thoughts tended towards the noble, and Hannibal hated that.

*******

Winter was coming, and the days, as well as the weeks, were getting colder and colder. There were few mornings when frost was not present, covering the entire garden and the surrounding landscape with a thin white layer. Hannibal loved these quiet mornings, where he could enjoy a few hours of solitude to lose himself in his thoughts, or simply draw quietly, comfortably installed in his room.

It was at the beginning of a day like these ones, that the young man was interrupted in his artistic activity by Mrs. Du Maurier, who had just knocked on his door and seemed a little anxious.

“He's coming back tomorrow. He's given me directions to prepare all the rooms. I'm to get more staff from the George Inn. Miss Bloom's coming.” She said in one go, not wanting to get lost in insignificant details.

Hannibal looked at her, without daring to say a single word. He could see that the housekeeper was catching her breath, to start talking again.

“Supplies to be got, the linen, mattresses... I'll go to the George now. No, no, I'll tell Jimmy...” She added, hesitantly.  
“May I assist you, Mrs. Du Maurier?” The young man suggested.

At these words, Bedelia let her joy burst out, smiling sincerely, happy to have unexpected help, facing the mountain of work that awaited her.

*******

Throughout the day, the servants present, as well as the new ones who had just been hired, tried to clean and tidy up the manor, so that they could prepare and install everything necessary for the coming visitors. It was, however, only the next day, at the beginning of the afternoon, that Mr. Graham and his guests arrived. When the news of their imminent arrival was quickly spread, everyone was busy to make the whole thing flawless. Mrs. Du Maurier issued orders as quickly as she could, while Hannibal was helping in the kitchen, preparing with other servants the various dishes that would be served during dinner.

“South-facing rooms for Lady Bloom and Miss Bloom. Colonel and Mrs. Shell must have the river view.” Bedelia said to Brian and Beverly, as she wrote down everything in a little notebook.

The kitchen was noisy, everyone was chatting happily, emitting a plethora of suggestions about when or how William Graham would eventually ask for Alana Bloom's hand. Abigail, who had exceptionally no lessons for today, arrived in the room, running quickly towards a window to watch the arrival of the gentlemen and ladies. Behind her, the young Freddie was trying to catch her, calling her by her name to calm her down and prevent an accident from happening.

“Ils arrivent. Ils sont là.” She added to Hannibal.

The girl, who had managed to reach her goal, climbed the stone steps, allowing her to see properly through the window.

“ _Regardez ! Regardez ! Ils sont entrés dans la cour ! Il faut que je les vois !_ ” She shouted in her little voice.  
“ _Ça suffit._ ” Frederique answered, who was trying to get her back down.

Bedelia, still not understanding a word of French, went automatically to Hannibal, to understand the talk of the child and her friend.

“What's she saying?”  
“Mr. Graham is here.”

Mrs. Du Maurier then rushed to the entrance, in order to receive the owner of the house and his guests as it should. Abigail followed her, but for quite a different reason. She went to one of the adjoining rooms of the hall, to be able to look through a window again and watch the arrival of the newcomers. Accompanied by the young red-haired woman, the teacher joined his pupil, to try in his turn, to calm her and to prevent a problem from being created.

“ _Qu’elle est belle, non ? Et sa démarche est tellement élégante._ ” The little girl whispered, who was scrutinizing the crowd.

Hannibal put a hand on Abigail's shoulder, preparing to tell her that she had to pay attention to her behavior when he heard Mr. Graham's name. The voice came from a beautiful young brunette, who was dressed in a sumptuous emerald dress and riding a white horse.

“William.” She said to the noble.  
“Allow me, Miss Bloom.” He answered, before reaching for her, to help her climb down.

The rich Englishman was dressed in a handsome cream coat with a fur collar. He also wore a beige top and black pants, which gave him an amazing appearance. It was the first time Hannibal had seen him dressed in such a rich and sophisticated way. On perceiving him, his heart quickened slightly. And when Mr. Graham took Miss Bloom's arm, to accompany her to the main door of his house, the professor's heart rate accelerated again, for a feeling had just settled in him: jealousy.

“I'd forgotten how masculine Thornfield is. I think you need more flowers.” The young woman said, between two charming smiles to William.  
“I have the fairest of all on my arm.” The man replied, making his partner giggle.

Jealousy, it had been an eternity Hannibal had not felt that way. And he knew that this feeling would not leave him immediately, but that it would grow up and settle comfortably in his entire being, as long as Miss Bloom was present at the manor.

“Tonight, he wants both of you in the drawing room after dinner.” Bedelia said, coming back from the entrance, her arms full of flowers.  
“Not me, surely.” The professor replied.  
“I'm instructed to tell you, if you resist, he'll come up and get you himself.”  
“But I don't have a suit.”  
“Don't worry, child, who'll notice?” The housekeeper added ironically, before rushing into the next room.

Hannibal remained calm, despite the provocations made against him, directly and indirectly, by Mr. Graham and Mrs. Du Maurier. Only the girl seemed pleased by this news.

*******

“I thought you were not fond of children, Mr. Graham.”  
“Nor am I, Lady Bloom.”

Several bursts of laughter were heard following this answer. In a corner of the big living room, where William and his guests were sitting, drinking champagne glasses or smoking a pipe, Hannibal listened silently to the cruel remarks made against Abigail. The child had gone to bed since a few minutes ago, avoiding her to hear the comments unfriendly against her. The professor knew that this evening, to which he had been ordered to come, was only an excuse to show him and his pupil, as curiosities, so that these ladies had a subject of gossip to put themselves under the tooth. But the most disagreeable thing about all this was Miss Bloom's look of disgust, even sometimes hate, against the young man. She sometimes stared at him for several seconds, never hiding her animosity towards him, while the latter remained impassive and silent face teasing.

“What induced you to take charge of her?” One of the guests asked.  
“She was left on my hands.” William said.  
“Why don't you send her to school?” Alana Bloom suggested.  
“She has a private teacher.”  
“Poor child. I had about half a dozen in my day, as well as governesses, all detestable incubi.”  
“It's true. Mr. Graham, beware the teacher and governess.” The mother of the brunette pointed out.  
“Mama thinks they're generally hysterics. Or degenerates. I thank heaven I have done with them. “It's a miracle I survived my education. I remember Miss Starling screaming, "You villainous child!"” Miss Bloom replied, supporting her last words with an unpleasant, nasal voice.  
“That's right. She tried to set her hair on fire. Frequently, I might add.” Her mother added.

This last revelation made the audience laugh again. Alana looked a bit pinched, not enjoying being laughed at. William, who was drinking a glass of champagne near the fireplace, glanced at Hannibal. The man continued to remain unmoved, impassive to the conversation. But for the nobleman, he was no less handsome and elegant, despite his worn-out suit, which looked awful in front of the sumptuous toilets that the ladies wore.

“Anyway, enough of this dreary race. We shall have music and a new subject.” The young woman announced, who went to the piano, which was near the fireplace.

She sat down, played a few notes, before turning to one of the men in the room.

“Mr. Gideon, what shall it be?”  
“I give you beauty.” This one replied.  
“There's nothing new to be said. I give you back male beauty.”  
“Well, that's my son.” One of the women yelled.

Alana Bloom made again dance her fingers on the white and black keys, while Mr. Graham approached her with his glass of alcohol in his hand. She stared at him, letting her cheekbones color, while fluttering her eyelashes.

“A man should pay no heed to his looks. He should possess only strength and valor. Gentleman or highwayman, his beauty lies in his power.”  
“Then a pirate would do for you?” The manor owner asked ironically, making a teasing smile at the young woman.

She said nothing and began to play more seriously, to begin the song that would, according to her, the apology of male beauty, or rather, that of a man with brown curls.

“ _Farewell! If the most beautiful of prayers,_  
 _For others, they made them happy._  
 _Mine would not get lost in the air,_  
 _But bear your name in heaven._ ”

For Hannibal, the lyrics, which she sang, were spoken in a voice that was not very melodious and that went too often in the treble. The result was bad and unpleasant to his ear. Preferring not to attend this ordeal longer, he got up and left the room, without even looking at his employer. But it only took a few seconds for the professor to come out of the living room, heading for his room, when a male voice called out to him, at the corner of a corridor.

“Why did you leave the room?  
“I am tired, sir.” Hannibal answered calmly to William, after turning to look him in the eye.  
“Why didn't you come and speak to me? I haven't seen you for weeks. It would have been normal and polite to wish me good evening.”  
“You seemed engaged.”

A smile appeared on Hannibal's lips, happy to find himself alone with this man, but above all, to be able to point out to him that his strange conduct was due to the current behavior of the noble.

“You look pale.”  
“I am well.” The professor replied, in a neutral tone, which contrasted with the expression he had displayed a few seconds before.  
“What have you been doing while I've been away?”  
“Teaching Abigail.”  
“You're depressed. What's the meaning of this?” The master of the house asked, extending a hand to the young man, as if to caress his cheek.

Hannibal stopped breathing, not knowing how to react to this gesture that was looming.

“Your eyes are full... What is it?” William questioned, as he had just been interrupted by Bedelia coming from another room.  
“There's a gentleman to see you, sir. From Spanish Town, Jamaica. And indeed, I think he does come from some hot place because he won't take off his coat. Mr. Francis Dolarhyde. I've put him in the morning room. Have I done wrong?”

A heavy silence settled for a few seconds. Hannibal watched William and his reaction to this unexpected visit. The man seemed angry, but also and strangely, anxious. His eyes were staring at something in the void, changing colors as thoughts were jostling in his head.

“Bring him to my study.” He finally breathed, freeing Mrs. Du Maurier, who hurried to join this newcomer.

Mr. Graham turned his back on the professor and started wandering around the room. He seemed lost.

“Hannibal, this is a blow.”

His voice, usually serious, was weak. A huge weight seemed to have collapsed on his shoulders and he was struggling to resist to this burden too heavy for his shoulders.

“If I were to go to those people and they looked at me coldly and sneered, and then left me one by one, what would you do? Would you go with them?”  
“No, sir. I'd stay with you.” The young man murmured.  
“You'd dare condemnation for my sake?”  
“For the sake of any friend who deserved it.”

This answer made a sad look on William's face, as if that was not what he was hoping for. Deep down, he was happy that this man, younger than him, responded favorably to his request. But, the word "friend" had attenuated this joy.

“Francis.”

A tall brown man with a scar on his mouth had just arrived and was walking towards Mr. Graham. A gloomy look was painted on his face.

“How the devil are you?”  
“Splendid. I'm sorry. I see you have guests.” The newcomer replied, before hugging his interlocutor.  
“'Tis no trouble. Come.”

The two men left the room, without looking at Hannibal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation of Abigail and Frédérique dialogues:
> 
> “What do you have, sir?”
> 
> “They arrive. They are there.”
> 
> “Look ! Look ! They entered the yard! I must see them!”  
> “That's enough.”
> 
> “How beautiful she is, no? And her approach is so elegant.”


	12. Chapter 12

The night was calm and peaceful. It had been several hours since everyone had gone to bed, plunging Thornfield into darkness and silence. Hannibal had fallen asleep painfully, having had difficulty in silencing his thoughts, which had once again turned to William Graham and the events of the day before. But just like a few weeks ago, a noise awoke him.

Unlike the last time, when the young man had heard laughter near his door, the sound was deeper and more spectacular. A huge din, caused by several knocks and the screams of a woman, had shaken the manor for several seconds, waking up a large part of its occupants. Worried and wondering what had happened, the professor got up, dressed quickly and lit the candle that was in the sconce, before leaving his room. He walked quickly to the source of the noise, which led to the hallway where most of the guest rooms were. Many of them were out, a source of light in hand, trying to understand what had happened.

“What on Earth was that? Where is Graham?”

Hannibal watched silently, staying on the doorstep of the corridor he had just taken. He too was trying to understand what could have caused such a din. From the corner of his left eye, he could see a figure approaching discreetly from him, a candlestick in his hand. The master of the house, dressed in an outfit similar to the one of the night of the fire, leaned towards the young man to murmur an order.

“Wait for me.”

The two friends exchanged a brief glance and without another word being spoken, the professor showed his employer that he could count on him. After all, had not he told him, a few hours before, that he would remain faithful to him and not leave him?

“I'm here. Be composed. A servant has had a nightmare, that's all.” William told to his guests, signalling his presence, to appease his visitors.

He took a few more steps, heading towards Miss Bloom and the other ladies, to put them more in confidence, thanks to his reassuring words, his warm voice and his charming smile.

“I must see you back into your rooms because until the house is settled, she can't be properly looked after.”  
“Is there anything I might do?” Alana asked, wearing a long white nightgown and whose brown hair was tied by several small white ribbons.  
“Miss Bloom, ladies, please, return to your nests like the doves that you are. I assure you, all is well.” The noble answered him, gently placing one of his hands on one of the young woman's arms.

At this gesture, and despite the lack of brightness in the room, Hannibal could see that a redness had appeared on the cheeks of the lady, while she began to smile, mesmerized by the beautiful blue eyes of his interlocutor. Those same eyes which, so often and at the same time, so rarely, had looked him.

_Jealousy…_

Some guests grumbled, before going back to their respective rooms. Mrs. Bloom, her daughter and her friends, also returned to theirs, reassured to know that what had awakened them was due to the behaviour of a stupid maid. William stayed in the room, looking Alana, who continued to look at him too, until she perceived Hannibal. She stopped, looked at him for a moment, showing in her blue eyes how much this man, whose face dimly illuminated, reflected more the image of a human skull, than the one of a welcoming and warm face, could disgust her. Then the door closed.

Immediately after, adopting a much more serious attitude, despite a face steeped in anxiety, the noble rushed to the young man, grabbing an arm, to take him with him.

“Come with me.”

*******

In a very short time, the two friends reached a part of the mansion that was little used. Stopping in front of a door, William finally released Hannibal's arm, to grab a keychain and unlock the whole thing. He entered the room, following closely by the professor, to join a man who was lying on a couch. It was Francis Dolarhyde, always dressed in the same outfit he wore when he arrived, but without his coat and jacket. His shirt, somewhat ragged, was tinged with red on the back. And hearing the moans and groans that came out of his mouth, as well as his short and rapid breathing, Hannibal immediately understood what was happening: the man was hurt and suffered terribly. The person who had shouted, a few minutes before, was perhaps a woman, but the teacher was certain, with the sight he had in front of him, that Mr. Dolarhyde had had to take part in this din and that he had not come out victorious.

“You told me you had notions of medicine. Can you clean this?” William asked, who knelt beside the victim, pulling the shirt slightly to expose the wound in the back.

Hannibal, in his turn, approached Francis, skirted his employer, and advanced his sconce to be able to observe the wound. It was located at the level of the left scapula and looked like a tear, as if one had tried to lacerate the skin with a sharp object? Or claws? The young man did not know, the wound was deep and blew too much, to confirm his speculation.

“Yes.” The professor replied, putting his candle on a nearby table, before starting to roll up his sleeves.

William, relieved by the answer, got up and poured some whiskey into a glass. He took a sip, trying to give himself a little courage, before handing the drink to Mr. Dolarhyde.

“Drink, Francis. It will give you the strength you lack.”  
“Will it hurt me?” The man asked, his voice trembling.  
“Drink!” The noble answered firmly.

Hannibal had begun to take pieces of tissue, which were in a wicker basket, tearing them to obtain compresses. He also grabbed the bottle of whiskey, soaking some of these makeshift bandages, to clean and disinfect the wound. Mr. Graham advanced to the young man, seizing his arm again, to speak to him. Although the grip was firm, it did not exert sufficient force to hurt Hannibal. On the contrary, the gesture was almost tender. William's thumb was stroking the professor's soft skin, letting his finger move, feeling the muscles and veins that were visible.

“I must go for the doctor. Sponge the blood away when it returns. Give him water if he wants it. But, do not speak to him for any reason.” The noble commanded his interlocutor, staring at him with piercing blue eyes.

The professor nodded.

“And, Francis, on pain of death, do not speak to him.” William indicated to the wounded man, turning his head so he could look at him severely.

He let go of Hannibal's arm, after a last stroke, before walking towards the door and leaving the room, without taking a last look at the two men. For several seconds the professor felt the pressure, the heat and the roughness that Mr. Graham's hand had exerted on him. Then the young man stepped back to Francis and began to dab and clean the wound, using his cloth moistened with alcohol. This one grunted in contact with the fabric on his bloody flesh.

For long minutes, Hannibal exercised his talents of a novice doctor, before stopping, when a new noise intrigued him. Mr. Dolarhyde, who had fallen asleep under the effects of alcohol, pain, and blood that he had lost, was not responsible for the sound the teacher had heard. And outside the wind, which was leaking into the room, creating noisy air flows, like mournful murmurs, we could hear like footsteps. The wood creaked with each pressure that was exerted on the floor. Yet there was no one else in this part of the mansion. The young man stood up, letting his patient sleep, to advance to one of the walls, from where sounds seemed to come. The facade was completely covered with heavy tapestries and the wind, when it was strong enough, moved the whole thing. If Hannibal was superstitious, he might have thought that a ghost or a spirit amused itself by tormenting him. But he did not believe in those tales intended to frighten children like Abigail. And yet, he could hear footsteps.

The professor began to touch the tapestry, caressing the patterns and figures that had been embroidered, before moving the whole thing, to see if no door or window was present. But, there was nothing. The wall consisted only of gray and black stones, the same ones that had been used to build Thornfield. Still keeping his calm and reflective mind, Hannibal came closer to the wall, touching it, so that he could feel it. Then he leaned against the structure, sticking his ear to the wall, hoping to hear something, or someone.

Boom! A knock was thrown against a wall, but not the one where the young man was. And the cries of a woman, the same who had already screamed that night, rang out far and wide. At the same moment a door slammed and footsteps, different from those heard previously, were heard. Someone was coming to join Hannibal and Francis. It was William who opened the door, accompanied by a man, dressed in a dark suit and black top hat, carrying a leather briefcase with him. The doctor.

“How does he?” Mr. Graham asked to the professor.  
“He is sleeping.”

The nobleman approached the young man, watching him for a moment, to judge and see if all was well, while the doctor was busy around Mr. Dolarhyde.

“Hurry, Sutcliffe. Be on alert. The sun will soon rise and he must be gone.”  
“Let's have a look, shall we? Flesh is torn as well as cut. Very, very unpleasant. But it has been well cleaned.”

*******

The three men had transported the wretched Francis to the diligence of the doctor. The scientist had then left Thornfield, taking the wounded man with him. William closed the little wooden door in the garden, through which they had passed, before falling on it, trying to catch his breath. His legs trembled, while his back was jolted. Hannibal, who was waiting silently a few feet away, was content to observe his employer. He did not know if he wanted to be alone, or if a tender gesture could have alleviated the torments that beset him, after this new and eventful night. And yet, this idea of going to embrace the man and snuggle his face in the hollow of his neck, was most tempting. But this scene, he could only imagine it in one of the recesses of his memory palace.

“It's a strange night you've passed.” William whispered.  
“Yes, sir.”  
“You showed no fear.”  
“No, although the inner room could have afraid me.”

At these words Mr. Graham turned, leaning his back against the wooden door, to look at Hannibal. His face was filled with sadness and fear. His blue eyes, strangely similar to those of a child, seemed to implore comfort. But the man said nothing of the kind, though his body and mind were screaming that he wanted only one thing: a tender gesture so that he could not fall into something dark. However, as if he knew that this gesture would not happen, fatalistic, he sighed, trying to take back his voice more serious and suaver, seeking to reassure Hannibal, but also, and especially, himself.

“You were in no danger.”  
“Mr. Graham, who did that violence?” The young man asked.  
“I cannot tell you.” William said, who had come off the wall to walk to the stone staircase leading to the manor.  
“Why do you protect them?”

The nobleman stopped, hesitated about what to do, and finally decided to sit on the steps. He sighed once more, running a hand through his brown curls that framed his face, trying to put them back, without success.

“I drag through life a capital error. Its consequence blights my existence. For years, I've sought to escape it. This spring, I came home heart-sore and soul-withered. And I met a gentle person whose society revives me. With her, I feel I could live again in a higher, purer way.”

Raising his head to fix Hannibal, his eyes still filled with deep sadness and his slightly trembling voice, following this confession, William tried to speak again to get answers to his own questions.

“Tell me, am I justified in overleaping an obstacle of custom to attain her?”  
“There is an obstacle?”  
“A mere conventional impediment.”  
“But what can it be? If you cherish an affection, sir, then fortune alone cannot impede you.”  
“Yes.”  
“And if the lady is of noble stock and has indicated that she may reciprocate...” The professor tent to add, before being cut brutally in his answer, by a nervous laugh of William.  
“Hannibal, of whom do you think I speak?”  
“Of Miss Bloom.”

The answer made Mr. Graham smile before he burst out laughing. The young man with high cheekbones remained stoic, finding the situation suddenly unpleasant. For a moment, he had thought his employer was going to talk about him, but when he realized that the subject was about Alana Bloom, Hannibal had hard to digest that information.

_Jealousy…_

Yes, again and still this detestable feeling that crawled under her skin since the arrival of the young brunette. And Abigail's teacher continued to hate it, his inability to ignore it, to go over the pain and anger that was devouring him. How could he, who was so good at mastering himself, mentally and physically, be so weak against the choices and comments of this man with blue eyes and brown curls? And above all, for how long, this internal storm that ravaged him, would last or remain hidden in the depths of him, when his friend continued to charm him and make him suffer at the same time?

“I'm asking what Hannibal Lecter would do to secure my happiness?” Mr. Graham said, having managed to stop his laughter, while retaining his smile, which had turned into something more mischievous.

The professor looked, somewhat taken aback by the question, at the man who was sitting a few feet away from him.

“I would do anything for you, sir. Anything that was right.” Hannibal answered.

The main part of his answer had been expressed from the bottom of his heart. For the first time ever, he had not thought about what to say and how to do it. The words were spoken in a natural and spontaneous way. But, as soon as he had finished his sentence, his brain had called him to order, telling him that this answer could be confusing, was not correct. He then added, in a more calm and composed tone, the second part, as to clarify these remarks, showing the limits he had to impose on himself and William.

“You transfix me quite.” Graham whispered, before getting up.

The rich owner advanced to a bed of plants, Viola flowers, to pick one. He blew lightly on it, to melt the frost that had crystallized it a little, before delicately removing the drops of water, which now dotted the purple petals. Then William walked near Hannibal. Having reached him and being close enough to the young man, the nobleman placed the Viola flower gathered behind one of the professor's ears, smiling with happiness, happy to have been able to perform this tender gesture.

“I feel I can speak to you now of my lovely one, for you've met him and you know him. He's a rare one, isn't he?”

Gently, with a hesitant gesture, Mr. Graham let his hand rest on the young man's face, so that his fingers could play with a few ash blond locks, or simply touch a certain nape that had already inspired many erotic thoughts. With his thumb, and as he had already done during the night that had just passed, he began to caress the skin that was accessible to him. He gently traced the curves of the sharp cheekbone, like a sculptor who polished his work, like Pygmalion with Galatea. Hannibal remained calm and motionless in front of this gesture filled with love, savouring inwardly that happiness, though forbidden, that he agreed. All of this was beautiful and terribly delicious.

“Fresh and healthy, without soil or taint. I'm sure he'll regenerate me, despite the obstacles.”

_Be careful…_

Mischa's voice echoed in the professor's head, who was suddenly frightened by the consequences this gesture might have on him. He then backed away gently, freeing himself from the noble's hand, who did not try to hold him back, before fleeing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little reminder: The words or phrases in italics, can be memories, as the voice of Mischa, which whispers to Hannibal the good behavior to adopt.


End file.
